


Once Upon A Time In Mexico: Heart of Darkness

by Storyshark2005



Series: Once Upon A Time In Mexico [2]
Category: Jessica Jones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-25
Updated: 2018-02-05
Packaged: 2019-01-05 04:19:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 31,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12182760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Storyshark2005/pseuds/Storyshark2005
Summary: Part Two of OUATIM. Jessica and Kilgrave travel South, deeper into the heart of Mexico, to the state of Michoacán. Narcos and vigilantes are locked into a battle for the soul of a lawless land. Lost boys, more bodies, and the ghosts of the past. Pre-Jessica/Kilgrave, will progress from there.Chapters 3 and 4 just posted!





	1. Heat

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

>  
> 
> _“_ It was unearthly, and the men were—No, they were not inhuman. Well, you know, that was the worst of it—this suspicion of their not being inhuman. It would come slowly to one. They howled, and leaped, and spun, and made horrid faces; but what thrilled you was just the thought of their humanity—like yours—the thought of your remote kinship with this wild and passionate uproar. Ugly. Yes, it was ugly enough; but if you were man enough you would admit to yourself that there was in you just the faintest trace of a response to the terrible frankness of that noise, a dim suspicion of there being a meaning in it which you—you so remote from the night of first ages—could comprehend. _And why not?”_
> 
> _-_ Joseph Conrad _,_ _Heart of Darkness_

 

 

 

 

_***_

 

 

## CHAPTER ONE

## Heat

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

>   
> "And chiefly thou O Spirit, that dost prefer  
>  Before all temples the upright heart and pure,  
>  Instruct me, for thou know’st; thou from the first  
>  Wast present, and with mighty wings outspread  
>  Dove-like sat’st brooding on the vast abyss  
>  And mad’st it pregnant: what in me is dark  
>  Illumine, what is low raise and support;  
>  That to the height of this great argument  
>  I may assert eternal providence,  
>  And justify the ways of God to men."
> 
>  
> 
> -John Milton, _Paradise Lost_  (Book I, 17-26)

 

 

*       *       *

 

They’ve been in Ciudad-Juarez for almost six months now, and this country is slowly wearing them down, as surely as the sand and dirt particles eat away at the bones of Julia Sofia Torres and her three classmates that have been missing since February.

Jessica stares down at the backhoe hired by Julia’s family and neighbors, watches the rotten and decaying black mud spill from the clawed bucket, lifted up, over to the river bank, and back again, dropping a ton of damp heady-smelling earth to the ground where family and volunteers sifted through it with shovels, rakes, and sticks.

She hears a yell _Aqui! Aqui!_ and an older man pulls what looks like a piece of driftwood from the mud, white and knobby.

It is a femur.

There is a flurry of activity, of words that Jessica does not understand, and she feels the brush of an arm against her own.

“I hate this country.”  

She can feel the warmth of his hand nearby, and her fingers twitch, nails pressing white into her palm. She crosses her arms over her ribcage, his hands dive into his pockets, and the dangerous moment has passed. Jessica meets the eyes of Julia’s parents, Gaby and Julian, holding one another across the black and stinking pit.

“Get forensics. It might not be Julia.”

Kilgrave nods as he picks his way through the mud, his leather wing tips caked to the laces. It was a rarity for the _Federales_ to be present at an excavation- especially one funded by a victim’s family. But Kilgrave had been persuasive.

Jessica follows, picking her way through his footsteps, watching his shoulders rise and fall with careful steps. She glances back at Gaby Torres, black eyes staring at Jessica from her ghost-pale face.

Something twists in Jessica’s gut, and she knows as well as Gaby Torres does, that they have found the body of Julia Sofia. Worm-eaten, decaying, in the shallow gulch of the Rio Grande.

 

*       *       *

 

Trish leaves her voicemails. Jessica hasn’t called her back this month. Or last month. She’s not sure what she’d say when Trish asks her what she’s still doing down here. They’re working on strings of cases, most of which end up with body bags. They could be doing better work in New York, or LA. The Avengers are all over the news, saving people from bombs in buildings and psychopaths in spandex. But she doesn’t want a cape, and she doesn’t want to smash through one building just to keep the next one from toppling over.

She can’t explain to Trish that this furnace of heat and pressure and death feels like the right place for her crippled and broken soul, that maybe if she can save a few lives down here, the toll it's taking might be the right one. Maybe she deserves all of this. Maybe he does too.

_“Answer your goddamn phone, Jessica. I’m sick of this. You said you wouldn’t do this again. You’re...don’t fall off the map, don’t go somewhere I can't. You can't...you can’t save everybody. You can’t save him. He’s not your brother, Jess.  And he’s not you. Call me back. I love you.”_

 

*       *       *

 

One afternoon he comes back to the hotel room with a shopping bag and an HVAC guy in tow, carrying a huge box with a picture of a shiny white window unit.

She backs away, letting the guy pass with a polite smile before he sets the box down, kneeling in front of the sad little unit that hadn’t worked all week despite Jessica’s insistent complaints to Mariana at the front desk. The room is sweltering, and Jessica’s just been thinking about shaving off all of her hair.

“You didn’t-”

Kilgrave throws the shopping bag on the counter by the microwave, she can see a box of Nike’s, there’s also a couple pairs of socks, shorts, and some kind of quick-dry running shirt. It’s purple.

_Hardy har har._

“I didn’t do anything. I simply offered to pay for a new unit-”

“How much did you pay for that thing?”

“Nothing. I _offered_ to pay for it, but they insisted on replacing it and apologized for the delay in service. I mean, what kind of a hotel lets you pay for that sort of thing?”

“It’s hard to tell when they don’t have a _choice_ in the matter-”

He waves a hand dismissively, tossing his sunglasses on the counter with the shopping bag.

“We’ve been patrons for months. I think that’s a fair bit longer than most of their clients, and it is in their best interest to keep us around. They’re more afraid of a bad Yelp review than of anything I could make them do.”

“So you threatened them?”

He levels her with a look as HVAC-guy yanks out the old unit with a loud screech of plastic.

“No. I simply told them that while we’re very happy, _overall_ , with the accommodations at this hotel, the El Paso Hilton with it’s reliable air conditioning was looking more and more appealing by the day, and what kind of a person would I be if I let my poor sister sweat to death in these conditions?”

“You told them I was your _sister_?”

“What would you rather I have told them?”

“Nothing. It’s none of their business.”

“Yes. Well. It got the job done, hm? Let’s get some lunch, by the time Alberto is done we’ll have a nice, _cool_ room to come back to and you’ll be thanking me.”

She’s not totally convinced he didn’t use his powers for this, which is _very much_ against the rules they set down. But she can’t prove it, and besides, he’s got a point about a hotel leaving guests to suffer in this god-awful heat. She’s pretty sure Mariana just doesn’t _like_ her very much, and Jessica hasn’t ever excelled in the people skills department.

She glares, but looks away from him to the shopping bag on the counter. He grins a little despite her dourness, he’s won this round.

“What's in the bag?”

“Running shoes. In case you want to get a little exercise. You could use the endorphins, judging by your mood.”

He mutters this last part, but he fucking knows she heard him. Dick.

“What size did you buy?”

He smiles smugly. “The correct one.”

She picks up the box, a little miffed that they look to be in the ballpark.

“Bullshit. Just because you looked at my boots doesn't mean they’ll fit. Shoe sizing is all over the place.”

“They’ll fit.”

She throws them back on the counter, grabs her sunglasses and wallet, shouts a _gracias_ to Alberto as she opens the door.

“Whatever. Let’s go get some food.”

She tries the shoes on after lunch. They fit perfectly.

 

*       *       *

 

They’re still not sleeping hardly at all, even with the air-conditioning working again.

He gets up to run one night, about a week later. She tells him to _wait_ , she’s not sleeping either, she might as well test out the shoes.

There’s not really any other runners out at night, the city warns it’s citizens against that kind of thing. But they usually head downtown, then up through the nicer, richer neighborhoods where it’s safer. Her abilities would leave him in the dust, but she keeps at his shoulder, he’s an easy target by himself, someone could sneak up on him before he could get a word out, put a bullet in his head or a knife under his ribs. It happens all the time in this city.

They stop for a break at the top of a hill in Campestre, the houses are gated and they can see luxury cars glinting under the moonlight, BMW and Lexus logos winking quietly.

Her hair is pulled back, she’s leaning on an ornate concrete barrier overlooking the city, the tall stucco mansions of Campestre at her back. He’s catching his breath on a bench beside her, head tipped up to the night sky. The combined smog and dull yellow glow from El Paso and Juarez blankets the stars from view, but she thinks maybe she can make out Orion, or maybe the Big Dipper. She’s not sure, she’s never actually _seen_ the Big Dipper.

“There aren’t any windows.”

She turns to Kilgrave’s voice, follows the tilt of his chin to the homes across the street. She studies the pale stucco walls, red tiled roofs.

“Nobody down here is going to have street-facing windows. Those walls are concrete, bulletproof. Most of these houses probably also have hi-res, maybe even thermal cameras.”

“Oh. Right.”

“Trish has all that stuff in her apartment. She’s got a dog now too.”

“Rottweiler?”

“German Shepherd.”

“Ah. Bit predictable, our Patsy.”

“She’s got her reasons.”

“Right.”

Jessica sits next to him on the bench, follows his gaze to the stars. He clears his throat.

“How long since you’ve talked to her?”

“Trish?”

“Yeah.”

“Uh...I sent her an email not too long ago. She left me a voicemail. I dunno. She’s not really thrilled that I’m down here.”

“I don't imagine so.”

She frowns, tries to pick out the North Star. There’s a soft breeze picking up, cooling the sweat from her skin. “Can you see the Big Dipper from here?”

“Well let’s see. You won’t be able to see much. That bright one there...that’s Vega.” His finger points almost straight up, and something in her neck pops.

“So that’s Deneb there...and Altair...there. They form the Summer Triangle. Those three, see? You can almost always spot it if you look straight up. So your Dipper is somewhere over...there. Hm. Pity you won’t be able to see it, too many lights.”

“You take an Astronomy class or something?”

“Not officially.”

“Manchester?”

“USC. Thought I’d give the California thing a try for a year.”

“How old were you?”

“Sixteen.”

She tries to picture it, a skinny, bratty sixteen year old Kilgrave, all sharp chin and cheekbones, taking notes with reading glasses on. But she figures he probably just had a coed take his notes for him. If he took any notes at all.

“What was it like, waking up at ten years old, your parents are gone and you can go anywhere, do anything, be anyone you like?”

He stares at the stars, at the windowless walls ahead.

“It was like...waking up in a room without floor or ceiling. I didn’t know which way to step. It was terrifying, and I was free. Absolutely free from everybody and everything. I could die and nobody would know, or care. But the world was mine to bend, to shape. It was like magic.”

They run back to the hotel, and Jessica stares at the ceiling a long while before sleep takes her, and she dreams of running, running out of her shoes, her clothes, and finally her own skin. She feels it peel away, burning and clinging to her bones, until finally, _finally_ \- she is free.

 

*       *       *

 

They interview a girl in a hospital after three men try to pull her into a pickup truck as she was walking home from school. An auto-mechanic heard her screams and managed to wrap his arms around her torso and pull her back from the cab, the would-be kidnappers drove off without a fight.

Her name is Luna, she’s twelve, bespeckled, and covered in bruises. One of the men twisted her arm so badly trying to pull her into the truck that he dislocated her elbow, and broke her wrist. Jessica sits with her and plays Connect Four on her bedside table while Kilgrave talks to the auto-mechanic outside the room. Luna’s parents are on the way.

Luna slips in a red checker piece, she’s got three in a row stepping diagonally upward now. She’s been trying to practice her grade school english, and between that and Jessica’s slightly improved Spanish, they’ve got a little banter going.

“Uh-oh...” Jessica hisses, rubs her chin in thought. 

“You’re trouble. I win.” Luna smiles, pushes her glasses up with one finger. Cute kid.

“Not yet, you don’t.” Jessica ticks her finger from side to side. She holds a black checker over the slot that would end Luna’s little streak, hesitates, watches Luna’s face furrow with worry. Jessica hums again and slides it two spaces to the right, making three black pieces in a dead-end row. 

Luna crows, drops her last red piece in place. Four red men in a pretty upward line.

“I win!” She giggles, claps.

Jessica grins, sits back and watches Luna slide the little trap door that releases all of the pieces down in a cascade of red and black plastic. She prompts her for a high-five, and Luna doesn’t let her down.

The door clicks open, and she turns around to look up at Kilgrave and Paulo-the-mechanic. Paulo sits to fill Jessica’s vacant seat and help Luna re-arrange the pieces of the game. She crosses her arms, keeps her eyes briefly on Luna. 

“Get anything?”

“Plate number and a good description on the guy that had his hands on Luna. He had a Sinaloatattoo.  Paulo’s an observant guy.”

She breathes a sigh of relief. “Some fucking good news.”

Kilgrave nods, breathes in and out heavily. His eyes have been darting around all afternoon, taking in the bright green walls, the fish and jungle animals plastering the hallways, the teddy bears and the pictures of kids with no hair and dark purple smudges under their eyes.

“You okay? Kevin?”

He finally looks at her. He does that when she uses his given name.

“Yeah. I just hate the smell. It’s the antiseptic. They all smell like this, like death.”

“Let’s go, we’re done here. I’m starving, Maria said she’d have dinner on by seven.”

 

*       *       *

 

They’d both gotten tired of the Mexican-Chinese thing fairly quickly. With so many stresses weighing on their relationship/friendship/partnership/ _whateveryouwannacallit_ already, the fact that Maria _could_ cook, coupled with the fact that she _liked_ to, and liked to _for them-_ well this lightened up their evenings considerably.

Jessica washed, Maria dried, and Kilgrave stretched out on the sofa, feet shoeless and socked in purple.

Maria also spoke English, which wasn’t totally rare in Juárez, but rare enough that Jessica had to rely on Kilgrave more than she would have liked. Coming back to Maria’s house and having a decent conversation with somebody in English, that wasn’t Kilgrave,  was a relief. A God-send, if she believed in that sort of thing. She didn’t.

Maria frowned, squinting through the kitchen window over the sink. Jessica followed her gaze to a white Tahoe rumbling down the street, sub-woofers shaking the glasses stacked on the wooden drying rack.

“Anybody you know?”

Maria stepped back, laid her towel on the back on a chair.

“Nobody, Jessica.” She said ‘Jessica’ like _Yess-ica._ “Just the price of the life I have lived. I’ll be looking over my shoulder until I die. Fair enough for my crimes, I think.”

Jessica grabbed the towel and dried her hands, leaned back against the counter, still scanning the street.

“You’re not like them, Maria.”

“ _Querida._ You don’t even know my real name.”

“I know enough.”

“You know what I’ve chosen to tell you. That’s enough. Now, take these in, my back is not so good. The cuba libre is for _Keviño_.” That ridiculous nickname.

“ _Keviño_ can come get his own drink-”

But Maria shoos her into the living room with a little shove, following with a bowl of chips and salsa.

She sets the drinks down on the table, sweeping his feet off the couch, cuffing him on the back of the head when he grumbles in complaint. There’s only the couch in addition to the stuffy chair Maria always sits in.

“ _Yess-_ ica, be careful. You hit harder than you know.”

Kilgrave shoots daggers at Jessica, but pulls his knees up, swings them to the floor. He says something in Spanish that he _knows_ Jessica cannot understand, that has Maria laughing.

Oh, Maria _loved_ Kevin. If only she knew…

The thing is, Maria _does_ know better. She’d figured them out after the third case she’d tipped them off on, cornered them over margaritas at the bar, told them what she’d suspected. She’d been pretty close, and clearly, this wasn’t her first encounter with people possessing _special abilities_.

Kilgrave had been under orders from Jessica, _under pain of death_ , to be painstaking in his choice of words, especially now with Maria aware of what he could do. On a practical level, they needed Maria to find the girls. But what they’d really needed was somebody they could talk to besides each other. They were alone together for so much of the time that a third presence was like decompression after a long dive in the deep.

So Maria refuses to call him by anything other than his given name, she showers him with endearments, pet names _,_ pats his cheek. And he _loves_ it, glows under the sun of her affection. And he’s careful with her, with what he says, and how he says it. Frames sentences like precious pictures he might break.

Kilgrave takes the drink, smiles after a sip.

“ _Gracias_ , _es perfecto_ , Maria.”

Jessica rolls her eyes over her whiskey.

“You are welcome, _cariño_ . _Yess-ica_ , you want your eyes to stick like that?”

It’s practically a game they play now, Maria acting as their mother- but it’s familiar and comfortable, and their life is so strange nowadays that she lets this bizarre dynamic slide.

 _Keviño_ nearly snorts his drink through his nose and Jessica smiles despite herself.

“All right _niños,_ now we talk business.”

Maria reaches into a bookcase behind her, pulls out a manila file folder, tosses it across the coffee table.

“I have an old friend coming to see us tomorrow. He will explain all the details, but this will give you an idea of the situation.”

Jessica flips open the folder, studies a summary page, pictures from newspaper clippings.

Kilgrave frowns, fingers a word on the sheet.

“Michoacán? That’s a thousand miles from here- why the hell would we go to Central Mexico for a job?”

Jessica’s mouth drops, she’s about to agree with him.

Maria sighs, takes a drink. “This is…more than a job. My friend…he is an old schoolmate of mine. His name is Padre Alberto López. He is a priest in the village where I grew up. He heard about your work finding the Rodriguez sisters…”

The Rodriguez Sisters. Ana-Lucia, Roberta, and Katarina- sixteen year old triplets. A few members of the Sinaloa Cartel kidnapped all three girls after a trip to the mall. They took the girls in broad daylight- all it took to find them was pulling a few surveillance videos, grabbing a plate number, and persuading the Juarez police to bother running all of that information through a computer. That and a few interviews with some street thugs. Jessica and Kilgrave got to the hotel room to find the girls being pushed into a van, bound for a local airport to a buyer in Thailand.

Maria’s voice pulls Jessica from her thoughts.

“I still have family that I keep in contact with in Michoacán. They told Padre López that I could get them the help they needed. This…this is a favor. Padre López seeks help on behalf of a family named Ramirez. They are…were…good people.”

Jessica glances back down at the folder. Her stomach drops as she reads the case summary.

_Family massacred…missing child, kidnapped...13 other members dead……slaughtered in the mountains on the outskirts of town…youngest victim two years old…women, children, indiscriminate…torture…_

“Jesus…” She can feel Kilgrave beside her on the couch, he reaches to slide another sheet from the folder. A picture of a little boy, smiling.

Maria continues. “That’s Juan, the youngest survivor. _Juanito_ . The _narcos_ took him with them after they murdered his entire family. He’ll be six this month.”

“Youngest survivor? There’s another?” asks Kilgrave, eyes up.

“His sister, Rosa. She’s eleven. She managed to run back to town from the field where they slaughtered her family. She is in Padre López’s care.”

Jessica clears her throat, disturbed. “They think Juan is still alive?”

“The cartel members are not known for their ability to keep secrets. They’ve been heard bragging around town that their leader, El Chayo, has taken a liking to Juan. Wants to raise him as his own, in the cartel.”

Kilgrave scoffs. “I don’t suppose anybody in town has tried to, I don’t know… _rescue_ the boy? Since they all seem to know who did it, and where they can find him?”

“El Chayo is the Mayor’s brother. The police have no interest in helping the townspeople, and they protect the _Templarios_ cartel with even more vigor than you have encountered up here. In terms of cartel activity and the level of government and police corruption, Michoacán is worse than Ciudad-Juárez.”

“And you want to send Jessica and I down to clean up this mess-”

“Kevin…calm down-” Jessica lays a hand on his arm, a rare bit of physical contact. He settles immediately, still fuming.

“This is bloody madness…”

Maria studies him, face etched in a frown.

“ _Si_. It is madness. But a little boy did not choose to be pulled into such darkness…and you can help him. You have a gift, Kevin.”

Jessica winces and Kilgrave is on his feet before she can tug him back down.

“I didn’t _ask_ for this- I didn’t _choose_ this- I’ve been dragged around this city on my _knees_ , for _months_ now, digging up bodies of dead girls and _children_ \- and you want me to step into the next circle of hell and just _fix_ everything- everything in a place where nobody can stop this, this- _cycle_ -”

Maria stands, her hands on his face, cradling him like a son, she whispers some words in Spanish.

“ _Cariño…_ no. You don’t have to go. But look at this little boy. Look at him…hm? He is like you were once, hm? He is…innocent, Kevin. His sister…she just wants her brother back. And you can help… You _can_ , _querido_. You are the only ones that can.”

He gently pulls her hands from his face, presses them between his own before letting them drop. He turns back to Jessica, runs a hand through his hair, eyes holding a question for her.

She meets his gaze. “Let’s just…sleep on it. We’ll talk to the priest tomorrow.”

He nods. “I’m tired.”

Maria nods, bends to pick up their glasses.

“I made up the bedrooms. Stay here tonight, _niños_ , you know I sleep better when you’re here. I pick up Padre López tomorrow morning. You can sleep in, we’ll talk over lunch.”

Jessica goes to grab their bags from the car- these days, they always have a packed bag in the car- and lets Kilgrave take the first shower.

Maria’s already upstairs getting ready for bed when Jessica re-enters the house. She double checks that all the doors and windows are locked, and that the guns are loaded and where they should be- _above the kitchen cabinet, top shelf of the linen closet, taped to the underside of the coffee table_.

She throws Kilgrave’s duffel onto his bed, he’s still in the shower. She steps into her own guest room right across the hall, and realizes that in the last two weeks, they’ve spent more nights in this house than they have in their hotel room. She’s been thinking about asking Maria how she feels about that. They could stand to save the fifty bucks a night, and Maria was always so insistent about them staying any time they wanted.

She kicks off her boots, jeans, pulls on a pair of sweat shorts Trish had given her, printed bewilderingly, with the _Trish Talk_ logo right on the butt. Ridiculous.

There’s a soft knock on the door, she pulls it open as she’s adjusting her tank. Kilgrave’s leaning against the door frame. His hair is sticking up, still wet, and he smells like soap.

“Shower’s free.”

“’Kay. Thanks.”

His fingers knock a couple times, absently, on the jamb.

“What d’you think, about all this?”

Jessica blows her bangs out of her eyes, leans opposite him on the door frame.

“If we can help, we should. I just keep thinking about his sister.”

“Yeah.”

She takes a deep breath, in through the nose, out through the mouth.

“Look, I know...you’re tired of all this. I am too. But this is why we’re down here.”

He stares at her in that unnerving way, eyes all big and brown, arched over with elegant brows. She’s about to tell him to _cut it out_ , but he looks down and away, nods.

“I suppose so.”

“Okay.”

“Right. I’ll uh...see you in the morning, then?”

She bites her lip, nodding awkwardly.

“Yep.”

He nods, pushes off back toward his room.

“Goodnight, Jessie.”

She gives him the finger, but his back is already turned, and his door shuts with a soft _snick_.

 

*       *       *

 

They sleep in the next morning till around 9, and spend the early afternoon drinking coffee, reading over the casefile- or drinking coffee and watching Manchester football on telly.

Padre López is short, sweet-faced, and speaks English, so the briefing is easy on Jessica. They’ll be staying in the church basement in Apatzingán. It’s free, and they’ll be using Padre as a guide around the city, so it makes sense. Kilgrave wrinkles his nose when Padre López tells them this, and Jessica kicks him in the shin under the table. She hides his wince with a loud cough.

The flight to Morelia will take five hours, Padre López will pick them up from the airport and drive them the two and a half hours to Apatzingán.

Jessica clears her throat. “Maria said that Juan is most likely with El Chayo. He lives in the city?”

“Yes, he travels from place to place in the region, and he never stays in one spot too long. He likes Apatzingán for the same reason all the other cartels would like it- the Lazaro Cardenas ports are just a couple of hours away. This is where they receive all of the supplies to make methamphetamine, and where they get the cocaine.”

“Do you think he’ll have Juan close by? In the city?”

López sighs, shakes his head.

“I don’t know. The massacre was brutal, even for the _Templarios_. The Mexican government is under heavy international pressure to find the perpetrators, so he may be on the move. Then again, his brother, Aquiles Gómez Martínez, is our Mayor- he might feel safe here, under the protection of the city government. This is where I’m hoping you can help us.”

Kilgrave leans back, stretches one arm long across the back of the sofa. She can feel the heat of it at her neck.

“Well. I suppose a little chat with Mayor Martínez is the place to start, eh?”

Jessica feels his eyes on her, and she leans forward, elbows on her knees. She sees him flinch, just barely, and he pulls his arm back to his side, rocks forward to cover the movement.

She meets Padre López’s eyes.

“Okay. Let’s do it. When do we leave?”

 

*       *       *


	2. Pressure

 

 

_***_

 

## CHAPTER TWO

## Pressure

 

 

***

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

>   
>  "Me miserable! Which way shall I fly  
>  Infinite wrath, and infinite despair?  
>  Which way I fly is Hell; myself am Hell;  
>  And in the lowest deep a lower deep  
>  Still threat’ning to devour me opens wide,  
>  To which the Hell I suffer seems a Heav’n."
> 
>         -John Milton, _Paradise Lost_ (Book IV, 73-78)

 

 

***

 

 

 

 _Ciudad Juárez, Mexico_  
_5 days missing_

 

Kilgrave takes one look at Jessica the next morning over toast and tea (or coffee and oatmeal) and declares Jessica’s hair “a filthy mess” and that before they leave the relative comfort of the city, they should find a hairdresser and “do something about this Alice Cooper situation” quickly spinning out of control.

Normally Jessica would cuff him on the back of the head and tell him to “shut the fuck up, you dick”. But before she can lean across the breakfast table, Kilgrave swivels the shiny metal toaster toward her, giving Jessica a stunning view of herself in the curved metallic surface.

She sighs.

She looks like Alice Cooper.

The flight from Juarez to Morelia leaves at around 2pm, which leaves just enough time for a haircut and/or a proper shave.

“Just find a barber, we’re not going to the goddamn prom.”

Kilgrave frowns, looks up from his phone, bracing one hand on the door as Jessica takes a particularly hard left turn. Some jackass in the next lane over doesn’t know about turn signals or side-view mirrors, apparently.

“I don’t want my hair hacked off by an amateur with a fake cosmetology license they got from the internet. Especially if you’re going to make us pay for it.”

It was principal of the thing really. It’s tempting to let him talk their way into free haircuts, but it’s a slippery slope to free meals, free cars, free everything. And that sort of ruins the point of her tentatively titled crash course, _“How to be a decent fucking human being”_. At least with credit card fraud, they’re making an effort.

She sees a blue and red striped pole and swings into a parking spot the next block down. They step out into the hot, dry air. Juárez is in sepia, the sky a high, hazy pale blue. Accordion music drifts to them from a few streets over, and the air is perfumed with carne asada and coca-cola.

Kilgrave pulls at his vest ( _it’s called a waistcoat, Jessica_ ), straightening the wrinkles out over his shirt.

“I hope they have hot towels. I can’t stand a shave without hot towels. Absolutely barbaric. You’ve no idea though, in a country like this.”

“Right. I’m just going to tell them to shave mine off.”

He stops, turns an ashy grey color, and Jessica barks out a laugh.

 

*       *       *

 

The chairs in the front half of the shop are full, but the back half has one available, and Miguel is very excited that Jessica and Kilgrave are here. He drops a stack of style books in Jessica’s lap and gets started on Kilgrave. Miguel has plenty of hot towels.

It’s sort of weird, and fun, watching him in this banal little scene. Miguel flipping the black cape around his neck and shoulders, snapping it in place. Miguel nodding, hands on Kilgrave’s shoulders as they chat in Spanish, Kilgrave pointing at his head, short nothing little gestures. Jessica sits in the barberless chair over, ignoring the style books and staring chin-in-hand at the two of them.

“What are you going to have him do?”

“Nothing too crazy. Just clean it up, take quite a bit off the back and sides.”

“High and tight?”

He wrinkles his nose. He does that a lot.

“Nothing of the sort.”

Miguel pulls out his clippers, get to work. Combing out a section, clipping it short. Comb, clip. Again. Again.

“You’ve got a ton of fucking hair. He’s gonna jam up those clippers...”

“My dad’s side is Scottish. I probably get it from him.”

Jessica stills. He doesn’t talk about this kind of thing.

“I didn’t know that.”

“Hm. Not my favorite topic.” Miguel tips his head back and to the side, Kilgrave avoids eye contact with her in the mirror.

“You ever met your relatives? Aunts, uncles? Grandparents?”

“No.”

“Not even when you were little? Before you got sick?”

He doesn’t answer, he might be biting the inside of his cheek. Miguel asks him something, they exchange a few words. The floor is full of dull brown, it looks like a dead thing, abandoned and left to rot.

Miguel cranks the chair up a few notches, then leans it all the way back. He rubs some shaving cream into Kilgrave’s face, turns and opens a glass cabinet above. Hot towels.

Kilgrave smiles, winks at Jessica.

“This is always my favorite part.”

Miguel lays the towel gently down over his cheeks and chin, wraps it around his ears, and finally above his head. All she can see is the tip of his nose, and Kilgrave is gone.

She can’t see him anymore.

 

*       *       *

 

Jessica does chop her hair off, just not all of it.

The late morning sun is hot, but the air is thin and dry, and it licks the water from her scalp and the short hair at the base of her neck. She feels newer, lighter.

They’ve still got about an hour before they have to head to the airport, and Kevin remembered this great tamale place down the block, he’s still not big on Mexican food but it’s growing on him. They’re in line outside the tamale stand, Jessica’s scratching the back of her neck, when she notices he’s staring at her behind his sunglasses.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

They step up a place in line, she can smell the hatch chilies and pork roasting. The City never had anything that tasted like this, like desert heat and hard work and a hundred years of perfecting something that could warm you from the inside out. You could sweat out your imperfections and your sins and become newer, every time you sat down to eat. She’s not sure she’ll ever be able to eat anything else for the rest of her life. Chinese is too greasy and Italian too soft and tame and heavy, and it’s not like her mother left her any family recipes. Her mother had been a shit cook, Mrs. De Luca hadn’t lied about that. Her childhood had been filled with Tyson chicken nuggets, frozen ravioli, pizza, and spaghetti. Mom worked late on campus, Dad was never home on time from the garage, so Jessica would have to pre-heat the oven and chop up a salad and Phillip would always try to sneak a package of pop-tarts, he never did listen even when Mom left Jessica in charge.

“You look beautiful.”

She snaps her head around. “What?”

He flinches a little. “No, I didn’t mean. I mean I didn’t, I wasn’t…I was just saying. Your hair looks nice. You look like a young Demi Moore. I’m glad you didn’t take it all off…it’s nice.”

“Oh...okay.”

“You’re not going to punch me?” They move up another spot, the wind combs her hair back, and she smells jalapeños and roasted corn.

She smirks. “No.”

“Don’t want to get blood on your knuckles before lunch?”

“Maybe so. Hey, what do you want? I wanna try to order this time.”

“Carnitas, and the sweet corn.”

“Which is the corn?”

He points to the correct Spanish words on the menu, and stands at her shoulder as she picks her way through the language. The lady at the register is sweet and patient with her, calls her _muchacha linda_.

They stroll back toward the car, Jessica can still smell the green chilies and pork on her fingers, her tongue still burning pleasantly. He stops, slides his sunglasses up on his head, pushing his shorter bangs straight up.

He’s staring across the street at a large movie house, _The Plaza_. It’s an old-style cinema with a giant glowing marquee.

“They’re playing _When Harry Met Sally_ next week. I love that film.”

“You like _When Harry Met Sally_?” She stares at him over the rim of her sunglasses.

“Yeah. It’s a great film. I think I was in love with Meg Ryan for a decade.”

Jessica snorts. “You coulda asked her out. Nothing stopping you.”

He smiles wryly. “I thought about it.”

“So you think that’s what love is? Cute girls who get little crinkles above their noses, give up on Prince Charming and marry their best friend?” She fishes her keys out, eyes him over the hood of the car.

“I don’t know what love is. That’s according to you.”

“No, I thought you did, since you _do watch television_.” She says that last bit in her best British accent. It’s not bad.

“You gonna throw that back in my face?”

“Well. I just thought you were more of a _Play Misty for Me_ type romantic.”

He glares, pulls the car door open a little roughly.

“I like happy endings.”

“Those don’t happen too often.”

“Maybe I’m an optimist.” He settles in, buckling his seatbelt. Pulls his sunglasses down over his eyes.

She rolls her eyes. “You’re not the type to sit around and wait for life to turn out one way or the other. Not when you have the power that you have. You take what you want.”

She climbs into the driver’s seat, starts up the car.

“Well. I’m trying to change, aren’t I?”

“Yeah. I suppose you are. Tough changing those stripes, isn’t it?”

“What does that mean?”

“It means the road is long and winding, Kevin.”

He twists around, checking the mirrors as she backs out into the street. So fucking paranoid.

He huffs. “McCartney, huh? I always figured you were a John-girl.”

Jessica throws the car into drive, pulling away.

“Nah. The Stones, Kevin. I like the Rolling Stones.”

She sees him pulling back a smile from the corner of her vision.

“What’s so funny?” she asks, frowning, blinker on as they turn down _Avenida López Mateos_.

He taps a beat out on the dashboard, grinning.

“What?”

_“Please allow me to introduce myself, I'm a man of wealth, and taste-”_

“Oh, God.”

He laughs out loud. “Why am I not surprised? Of course you like the Stones, everything is coming ‘round now, I bet that’s your favorite song-”

“Fuck off, Kevin, it’s a great song, and it has nothing to do with you-”

“Seems like it might have everything to do with me. It’s why you adore me. I’m your archetypal Stones bad-boy stepped right from a teenaged dream-”

She scoffs, grinning. “Nightmare, more like.”

“Now you’re splitting hairs.”

Jessica shakes her head, squeezing her thumbs against the steering wheel. “ _Sympathy for the Devil_. Fuck me.”

He turns back to the road, fingers tapping _bah bah bah!_ against the dash. He hums along, singing barely above his breath, just loud enough to be audible.

_“Pleased to meet you, Hope you guess my name, oh yeah!”_

 

*       *       *

 

 _Parroquia de Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe_  
_Apatzingán, Michoacán, Mexico_

 

They lose an hour, and it’s after eight when they finally get off the plane in Morelia, and not until ten-thirty when they stumble from the church van through the entrance of _Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe_ in Apatzingán. Padre López leads them through a side entrance, past a courtyard washed in the pale light of a waning crescent moon. López explains that the church used to be an 18th century Spanish mission.

If Jessica would have known anything about Spanish Colonial architecture, she would have described the style as Baroque. Twin bell towers rose over the carved adobe facade. A wrought iron choir loft facing the enclosed courtyard, overlooking a yard of hard packed sand and dirt. The yard was broken in the middle by a cobalt tiled fountain, filled with silver and copper coins that would in the morning, wink with sunlight. It was painted with faded pale blue paint and other small, colored tiles, like a swimming pool. All four sides of the courtyard were surrounded by an arcade, a hypnotic succession of stone arches shading a cracked tile walkway. Stone planters were filled to overflowing with red, pink, and orange geraniums. A crooked jacaranda tree stood in one corner.

Padre López walks them through a side door and down a set of stairs to the basement, to a bedroom and living area. He leads them to the bedroom, and clasping his hands warmly, bids them a good night.

“This is... _the_...bedroom?”

Padre smiles, nods. “ _Si_. Is there anything else I can get for you? The bathroom is around the corner, I have towels, soap...” he trails off hopefully.

Jessica stares at the queen size bed, sets down her duffle bag.

“Um, so...this is just one bed.”

Kilgrave appears to be biting his tongue, looking a little too pleased with himself. “The man’s being very generous with this space, I think we’ll be fine-”

“Fu-hmm.” Jessica, miraculously, manages to choke down the last consonant. “Hmm. Um, okay. This, um. Won’t exactly work. I mean it will, for one of us. But he’s gonna need a couch.”

Kilgrave tilts his head back, and sighs heavily. “I think we’re asking a _little_ much-”

“Ah! I see-” López waves a hand. “Of course, I’m sorry, I misunderstood your...arrangement. Maria let me to think- but no matter. There’s a...how do you say... pull-up?”

“Pull-out.” Kilgrave corrects, setting down his duffle.

“Of course. A pull-out sofa just around the corner, right over here-”

The hall curves around and opens to a larger area that includes a small kitchenette, a card table and chairs, and as promised, a large pull-out sofa. An exterior metal door was retrofitted into the wall, and let to a set of concrete stairs which led back up into the courtyard.

López adds, as he turns to leave. “One more thing- there isn’t any air-conditioning. You’ll find a ceiling fan in the bedroom- the adobe keeps it much cooler down here, so don’t worry too much. Tonight, I would open the windows if I were you. It is a beautiful evening.”

They wave a thank you to the Padre, who retreats back up the stairs to his office, and presumably, his own sleeping quarters.

Jessica throws her bag onto the bed triumphantly.

“We’ll switch every night or two, sound good? Great.”

Jessica grabs two glasses from the kitchenette, and pulls a bottle of whiskey from her bag, as Kilgrave saunters back into the bedroom, leaning on the doorframe.

“You absolute heathen.”

“Have a drink with me? C’mon he’s right, let’s go outside. Bet it's easier to see the stars out here than in Juarez.”

“I’ve got a kettle on.”

“Turn it off, let’s go.”

He rolls his eyes, but complies. They step out into the cool night air, and Jessica breathes in deeply. The air was almost sweet, she hadn’t realized how polluted with smog and dirt the air in Juárez had been. They take a seat on one of the stone benches under the arcade, leaning back against the rough adobe of the church wall.

She unscrews the metal cap, fills up one glass, set it down between her knees, then a second.

“Here-”

“I’m fine.”

“Oh come on. You never drink with me.”

“I don’t like being drunk.”

“You don’t like giving up control.”

“No, I don’t. You know why?”

“Enlighten me.”

“Because when you’re not in control, you’re the boy in the box getting a needle stuck in his neck.”

“Jesus. That’s really fucked up, Kevin.”

“And your past isn’t?”

“I don’t remember it as well when I’m drunk.”

“That’s really fucked up, Jess.”

She smiles over the glass. Moonlight makes Kevin’s skin glow pale. The wind picks up and the skin of her arms prickles in goosebumps, they must be hitting some kind of weird front, she hasn’t felt cold in months.

“You alright? You look cold.”

“Don’t call me Jess.”

“Why can’t I?”

“You know why.”

“Why, cause _Dorothy_? Well fuck her.”

“I’ll toast to that.”

“How about this. I get drunk with you, and I get to call you Jess. I think we’ve earned a night off.”

“That sounds like a terrible deal.”

“Take it or leave it, _Jessie_...”

“Fuck. Fine, just don’t ever call me Jessie and we have a deal.”

Jessica pours him a couple of fingers, and their glasses touch with a little _ting_!

She watches his nose wrinkle, he swallows it roughly and holds the glass aloft, clearly disgusted.

“Jesus, this is awful. How do you drink this shit?”

“Don’t be a prick. We can’t all afford top shelf, can we? This gets the job done just as well.”

“That’s very depressing, Jessica.”

“Fuck off. So, one bed and no air-conditioning, huh? You’re gonna be a peach to work with on this case, all sweaty and bitchy all the time.”

He feigns an affronted air.

“Jessica, love, you could try for a modicum of tact. We are on hallowed ground. House of the Lord, all that.”

“Yeah we’re not on the best of terms. He can fuck off.” She tips back her glass, pours another.

He tsks. “Such a vision.”

“Whatever. You love it.”

She looks over after he doesn’t reply. He’s giving her one of those dangerous looks, all warm with affection that Jessica’s not entirely comfortable with. He looks away after a moment, stares down into his drink.

“So. How am I doing?”

She frowns, swallows. “What do you mean?”

“What’s my grade? We’ve been doing this almost a year-”

“A year next month.”

“Yeah. So we never talk about it. How am I doing? How close to human am I?” He sets his chin in his hand, raises an eyebrow.

“I’m not drunk enough for this conversation.”

“Fine. Finish that drink, then answer my question.”

“Two more. And you have to finish yours.”

“Deal.”

She kicks back two more drinks, lets out an _ahhh_ as the whiskey burns down her esophagus. He finishes his with a grimace, and turns to look over expectantly.

She taps a finger on her lip, studiously. Watches the anticipation in his expression. He was such a natural suck-up, he would have made a terrific teacher’s pet in an alternate universe with no degenerative brain disease, no mad-scientist parents, no powers of compulsion. 

“You are...currently exceeding expectations.”

He’s glowing, a small smile. “Really...?”

“Really. But-” He frowns as she holds up a finger.

"But?"

“But. You have a ways to go.”

“I haven’t compelled anyone in months-”

“I know, but it’s not just not using your power on people. It’s about genuinely giving a shit. About people. Which...is hard sometimes. Sometimes people suck.”

“Who are you kidding, you love people. That’s why you’re down here saving them.”

“Yeah, and you’ve seen how many of them don’t say ‘thank you’"

She finishes her glass, pours another and watches him shift around, thinking. He’s doing more of that lately, taking long dips into back into himself, bouts of silent moodiness, he goes hours in the car without a snarky comment. It’s somehow both comforting and disquieting at the same time.

“What? Spit it out.”

“It’s...I’m not sure your expectations cover it.”

“What do you mean?” She shakes her head.

“Was...was my killing your neighbor. Was that unforgivable?”

She looks down into the depths of her whiskey, a rich golden brown, more than likely a fake dye.

“Remembering his name would be a good first step.”

“Right.”

She finished her glass, starts another, her voice rough. “Why’d you do it? Why’d you kill him? He didn’t do anything to you.”

“I don’t want to talk about that.”

“Tough shit. I’ve given you a year to think about it. You’re out of excuses, _Kevin_.”

“I don’t have an answer you’ll like.”

“Then give me one I won’t.” She set her glass down, half turns to face him. “Come on. Just try.”

“I don’t...I couldn't tell you. He said he was in love with you. I was jealous. I don’t know why I killed him. Why I didn’t just make him walk to Canada or something. But nobody seemed real to me. It was like, walking around in a video game, picking off whoever was in my way. It didn’t seem real.”

“Does anything seem more real to you now?”

“You seem real.” He looks down, thinking. “Maria does, I think.”

“That sounds like an excuse so you don’t have to think about the real consequences of what you’ve done.”

“I don’t know. I don’t know what I supposed to say.”

“How about, ‘ _I’m sorry I murdered Ruben’_?”

“Would that make you feel better?” He scoffs, turns to her. She hates the petty tone, the narrowing of his eyes.

“I would suggest you turn yourself into jail. But you won’t.” Jessica feels that black, slick feeling in her chest again. She takes another drink and the burning heat of it warms it to something less viscous and heavy.

“What good would that do? I’m doing more good down here, with you. We got Hope out of prison, I can’t bring Ruben back. What would you ask of me?”

She polishes off the rest of her glass, slams it down on the bench between them.

“Right. Well we’ll see Rosa tomorrow. See if she seems real enough.”

She stands, hands him the half empty bottle. “That’s enough trauma for one night. I’m going to bed. You can have the shower, I’ll take one in the morning.”

“Jessica-”

She stalks off, back inside, escaping around the corner of the bedroom to peel off her jeans and slip under the covers. She feels cold, cowardly, but then again, nobody has yet to call her a hero.

She grabs for the unopened bottle of tequila wrapped in a tshirt in her duffle bag, and breathes out as the liquid burns warm in her chest. Her thoughts grow faint, and fuzzy.

She sleeps.

 

*       *       *

 

 _Parroquia de Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe_  
_Apatzingán, Michoacán, Mexico_  
_6 days missing_

 

 

Morning dawns early, and Jessica plugs in the electric kettle well before 7. She leans against the kitchenette counter and watches Kilgrave try to hide his head under his pillow.

“Morning, sunshine.”

He groans, rolls over on his stomach. She can see white scar tissue peeking out from the hair at the nape of his neck, right around his C7 vertebra.

“Get up, Rosa’s upstairs with Padre, and then we need to go interview the Mayor.”

“This couch...is a torture device. It’s got this metal bar that sticks right up in the middle of your back-”

She bends down to ruffle through his bag, pulls out a shirt and pants and throws it at him, he doesn’t skip a beat in his kvetching. It’s almost impressive.

“-and I didn’t get any sleep. And I don't like children.”

“Come on, I’ve got instant coffee, and I can smell food upstairs.”

He sits up, pulling his arms through the sleeves.

“You know I'm no good with them. They’re like strange little aliens, I don’t understand at all how they work.”

“Oh, but adult humans, you’ve got down, huh?”

Pulling on his pants, he fixes her with a withering glare.

“You know what they say.” Jessica rips open a packet of instant Folgers, stirs it into a mug, and holds it aloft.

“Fake it till you make it, Kevin.”

 

*       *       *

 

Padre has breakfast set outside in the courtyard, a metal patio table and chairs. Jessica spots Rosa immediately, setting the table with plates and silverware. She’s small and spindly, her dark hair is wavy and pulled into a ponytail, and her ears are studded with small silver studs. She’s wearing a black t-shirt with pink glittery writing that reads NEW YORK CITY. She turns, still holding a plate. Padre puts a gentle hand to her shoulder, crouching down and muttering something soft in Spanish, and gestures for Jessica and Kilgrave to come closer.

Padre smiles, and says something about _amigos_ , and _Yess-ica y Kevin._

Rosa nods, her eyes stay down. A soft little, “ _Hola_ ” falls from her lips.

Jessica says “ _Hola_ ” and elbows him in the ribs.

He winces but says “ _Hola_ ” and then begins babbling. Jessica presses firmly down on his shoulder, he looks back at her. She points to the ground and mouths kneel.

“Really?”

“Oh my god. Just do it, you’re intimidating her.”

He slowly sinks to a crouch, Padre smiling encouragingly, a hand still on Rosa’s shoulder. Jessica bends down beside him and tries to catch a few words.

_“Qué bonita mañana, eh? Mi nombre es Kevin, ella es mi amiga Yess-ica.”_

Rosa lifts her eyes up after a couple prompted questions from Kevin and Padre. Jessica smiles, hoping to look reassuring. Rosa looks over at Jessica and says something, a question.

Kevin shakes his head. _“No, ella es mi amiga. Somos viejos amigos.”_

Rosa asks something else, Kevin hesitates. Turns to Jessica.

“She...wants to know what we do. What our jobs are. What we’re doing here.”

“Tell her we are here to help. We’re going to try to bring her brother back. We’re detectives from America.”

“You sure you want to get her hopes up? I’m gonna leave out the word for detective, it sounds too much like police.”

“We’ve got to tell her something.”

“Okay.” She watches his shoulders tense, his voice is careful, he picks his way around words that Jessica cannot understand. She hears _hermano_ , and _Juanito_.

Rosa’s eyes snap from Jessica to Kevin, and back again.

_“Mi hermano está muerto. Todos están muertos.”_

Kevin turns back. “She says-”

“I know what she said.”

“Well...”

“Tell her...we hope he’s not. But if he is, we’re going to punish whoever took him away, and whoever killed her family. Tell her we’re going to bring her justice.”

Kevin’s eyebrows raise. “That’s a little...aggressive. You sure that’s what she wants to hear?”

She nods, looking back at Rosa. “Yes. It’s what she wants to hear.”

 

*       *       *

 

_Trish, it’s me. Listen, I’m not in Juarez anymore, I’m in this little town called Apatzingán. It’s a lot further South. We’ve got a case down here, there’s this kid we’re trying to find. The cartels kidnapped him. They killed his whole family. So he’s alone... all except his sister. So we’ve got to find him, and bring him home. Anyway, I just wanted to give you an update. You can call me. If you can’t get ahold of me, if something happens, contact Maria at the number I gave you, okay? She knows where we’re at. But don’t worry about me, everything’s fine. Kilgrave...he’s doing good. He’s behaving himself. So don’t worry about me. I miss you. Okay, bye._

 

*       *       *

 

Padre tells Jessica that getting to the Mayor will be difficult, he will be surrounded by a security team at all times, and he will most certainly dodge any call or request for a meeting with them, especially if the name Ramirez is mentioned. Jessica waves off his concerns, throwing her leather jacket in the back seat of the church’s van next to Kilgrave, who appears to be searching for a seatbelt.

“Just watch, Padre. I think you’ll be surprised at how eager Mr. Martínez is to chat.”

She turns around in her seat to smile winningly at Kilgrave.

“Right _Keviño_?”

Kilgrave levels her with his usual withering glare, behind sunglasses.

He ignores her, turning to López in the driver’s seat.

She picks up the word _citurón_.

Padre grimaces, shakes his head, says something back about being sorry.

Kilgrave sighs dramatically. Padre starts the van up after a couple of coughing starts, backing up into the church parking lot.

“I guess Mexico is as good a place as any to die tragically in a car accident.”

She glances up in rear-view mirror, he’s already looking at her. She slips her sunglasses on, focuses on his reflection.

“You got this? You know exactly what you’re going to ask him?”

“I only read those notes you typed out for me about a thousand times.”

“I’m bringing in Padre to make sure you’re translating accurately.”

He frowns. “That’s not necessary. He should wait in the car, in case we need a speedy getaway.”

“If you miss something, I won’t know it. Plus Padre knows all about this guy, he might think of an important question halfway through or something.”

“I’ve got all the questions, Jessica. It’s not that hard. _Where is the boy_ and _How do we get to him_ are all we’ll need. You’re overthinking this. Plus, we don’t have an extra vest for him.”

“Fine. We’ll have him drive around the block, we’ll call him up when we’re through. But I’m recording the conversation, we’ll go through it line by line later.”

He smiles tightly.

“Absolutely.”

 

*       *       *

 

Kilgrave leans forward, stares with intent into the Mayor’s eyes, and speaks, the Spanish rolling smoothly off his tongue. He’s ordered the security team to wait outside the door, and protect the three of them from harm at all costs. They’re not expecting trouble, but you never know.

_“Dónde está Juan Ramirez? Dime la verdad.”_

_“Con mi hermano.”_

_“Dónde está tu hermano?”_

_“No lo sé.”_

They go through it line by line later, Jessica types it out, runs it through Google translate in the dim air of the bedroom later that night.

_“You know where your brother is. Tell me where he is.”_

_“I don’t know where he is.”_

_“Take your best guess.”_

_“He could be anywhere. You think he tells me where he stays? You think he trusts me? You don’t know much about narcos, do you? There is no trust- only power and fear. He’s running scared.”_

_“Why?”_

_“Peña Nieto wants that boy found, he wants him alive- but if my brother gives him up, the other cartels will see that weakness, they’ll exploit it- nobody wants to work for a coward. Narcos have a nose for fear, and a hunger for weakness. He’s fucked.”_

Jessica files this one away. I’m fucked. _Estoy jodida_.

_“Is there anyone who would know where they are? Your brother and Juan?”_

_“Maybe. There’s a mid-level narco not far from town who might know. He owns a night club called Nachas.”_

_“Where is that?”_

_“Morelia.”_

_“What’s this narco’s name?”_

_“I don’t know his real name. They call him El Bajito.”_

_“El Bajito is usually at this club? We can find him there?”_

_“Probably. I can’t be sure. He traffics women through the club and does some drug business there as well. I’ve seen him there on busy nights, Fridays and Saturday nights.”_

_“You know this?”_

_“Everybody know this.”_

_“Fine. El Bajito works with El Chayo?”_

_“They grew up together. El Bajito was there in the desert when the Ramirez family was killed. He helped out.”_

_“He helped out? What do you mean?”_

_“People say he killed members of the family. Rounded them up like cattle in a truck, dumped them in the desert. They say he raped the women. Put a shovel through Juan’s father’s head.”_

Kilgrave rubs his eyes, sitting beside Jessica on the bed, helping her type up the transcript. The screen splashes them in blueish light, the sun had gone down an hour ago.

His mouth is drawn down in a firm frown. Jessica stares at the Google translation.

“This here…he’s saying he hit him with a shovel? Like smacked his head?”

“No, it’s more like…put it _through_ his head. He probably…hit him, and then once he was on the ground, he…put it through…ugh. Disgusting.”

“Jesus. I don’t even know why that surprises me.” She blows out a breath.

“Sounds like a lovely guy. When do you want to drive up there?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Right. Though if we wait till Friday night, he’s more likely to be there. It’ll be busy.”

“We can’t take the risk of waiting. Juan doesn’t have that kinda time.”

“Assuming he’s alive.”

“He’s alive.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Well we’ll operate under that assumption until we know differently.”

“Right. Fine.” He breathes in out through his nose, his eyes are tired and unfocused. He looks so different these days from what Jessica’s calling ‘ _Round One_ ’ in her head, the nine months or so when she was trapped under his compulsion. He’d always been so neat, clean, polished. She studies him now, hair sweaty and askew from running his hands through it, his rumpled shirt hadn’t seen an iron in months.

He’s starting to look more and more like Kevin, and less like Kilgrave.

“Okay. I’m going to bed. I’ll take the couch tonight.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, you’re gonna need sleep for tomorrow. Sides, I can sleep on anything.”

“That’s cause you’re a superhuman freak. Goodnight, Jess.”

She stands and folds the laptop up, leaving the room in darkness. Easing the door shut, she hears him pull the covers up and over his shoulder.

“Night.” The door clicks shut, and she pauses, her fingers spread long and thin on the painted wood. She presses her ear slowly up against it, and she can hear him breathing, his lungs filling with the air of the room.

 

*       *       *

 

 _Club NACHAS_  
_Morelia, Michoacán, Mexico_  
_7 days missing_

 

They leave Padre at the church the next morning, driving the two and a half hours to Morelia. They pull up in front of the club, NACHAS, a banner shows a nearly nude woman from behind, her head looking back over her shoulder seductively.

A sign reads-  _Calidad y precios bajos_ ” and _“Donde las fantasias se hacer realidad.”_

“What is that…precious _bajos_?”

“ _Precios_ means prices. It means Quality…and low prices.”

“Jesus. Prostitutes?”

“I believe so. This is where _fantasy becomes reality_.”

“That’s so fucking tacky. And disgusting.”

He grimaces. “I definitely wouldn’t touch any of these girls without hand sanitizer first.”

She hits him in the shoulder. Hard.

“ _Ow_ , that hurts-”

“That’s not what I meant by disgusting. I was talking about women being objectified into products like they’re being sold on Blue Light Special at Kmart. It’s not fucking funny.”

“I didn’t say it was funny. I just don’t want to catch some nasty disease, I didn’t say it was their fault they have to work in a discount whore house-” He’s unbuckles his seatbelt as they park, shouldering his suit coat on over his shirt. He’d been ditching the vests since the temperatures had been hitting into the 90s.

“You’re right. It’s not their fault, and they probably didn’t have a choice. You know Kevin, like free will? Like they’re probably trapped with a bunch of men who think they have the right to control what they do, what they wear, how they act?”

He doesn’t look at her, doesn’t meet her eye, just tries to burn a hole through the windshield with his eyes.

She shakes her head, hits the steering wheel with the heel of her hand.

“Fuck. Whatever. C’mon, let’s go get Shorty.”

*       *       *

 

The place is open, strangely enough, and at one thirty in the afternoon there are some grizzled looking men on lunch break, eating bar food and staring up at a woman dancing around a pole. Her face is blank and bored. There are a couple of bouncers standing by the entrance, but they hardly give Jessica and Kilgrave a second look. It’s dark and cooler in here, which is a relief from the baking heat outside.

Jessica strides up to the bar, feeling Kilgrave at her shoulder. She sits down, glances up at him with annoyance. He’s standing, an elbow on the bar, angling himself between her and the men a few seats over, who’ve started to leer at them.

“Sit down. I could pound any of these guys into the pavement.”

“They shouldn’t look at you like that.”

“Then tell them to stop.”

He turns, barks an order at them, and they immediately stare anywhere but Jessica. He hums, and looks inordinately pleased that she’s allowed this indulgence, allowed him to feel like he’s protecting her. She does this every once in awhile, if he’s particularly moody, or glum, or she feels as if she’s emasculated him enough for the week.

Not often. But every once in awhile.

The bartender arrives, looks at Kilgrave expectantly, blatantly ignoring Jessica.

_“Si señor?”_

Kilgrave tilts his head down to Jessica expectantly.

She pastes on what is hopefully a condescending smile for the guy. He looks unnerved.

“ _Dos cervezas, por favor.”_ she says, holding up two fingers.

The guy slides away to grab their drinks.

“How do you say, ‘and a plate of nachos’?”

“ _Plato de nachos_.”

She leans over the bar, raises her voice.

“Hey, and uh, _y uno plato de nachos. Gracias._ ”

“ _Que_?” He’s looking at Kilgrave again.

Jessica enunciates clearly, leaning further over the bar. _“Uno...plato…de nachos. Por favor.”_

The guy nods shortly, enters the order after handing them their beers. He stalks quickly off to check on the men down the bar from them.

She snorts, then takes a drink.

“Asshole. Not tipping him.”

“I wasn’t even planning on paying.”

Jessica glances down at his fingers drumming absently on the bar, chin in one hand. She remembers he used to do that all the time when they’d go out for drinks, he’d order for them, whatever he felt like they should have, and he would always do that thing with his fingers while they waited. On tables, the back of her chair, the soft skin on the underside of her wrist.

His fingers pause, he takes a drink.

“Any signs of Shorty?”

“Nobody in here looks like a narco. We should ask the bartender though, when he comes back. I’ll let you do the talking.”

“You could probably string together the questions. Your Spanish is getting better, you know. You can understand more than you think.”

“My accent is awful.”

He smiles fully, laughing, his eyes crinkle up at the corners, strangely making him appear younger.

“You’ll get there.”

“Do you think they can tell you’re British? When you speak Spanish?”

“They would know I’m not from Mexico. I learned in Spain, so I suppose I sound a little Spanish to them.”

“You don’t do that stupid lispy thing though.”

“No, I do in Spain. But not here.”

“Say something with the lisp.”

“Erm….ok. The word _corazón_. You get that ‘s’ sound. _Mi corazón_. But in Spain, you’d say it with a ‘th’ sound, instead of the ‘s’. Like… _cor-a-thon. Corazón_. See?”

“Jesus that sounds stupid- ‘ _cora-thon_ ’? It sounds like Daffy Duck.”

“You mean Donald Duck?”

“No, Daffy. He’s the black one. He hung out with Bugs Bunny. I think Donald was Mickey’s friend.”

“I didn’t much fancy Bugs bunny. I always watched the Mickey Mouse Club.”

“Oh my God you’re old.”

That gets him scowling.

She elbows him as he takes a swig of beer.

“That show was in black and white, right?”

He sputters a bit, glares at her.

“You’ve broken my _cor-a-thon_.”

She snorts, tries to hold back a genuine laugh and fails. He’s beaming again, the fucker.

Their nachos arrive and Kilgrave takes the opportunity to straighten his face and ask the waiter about their intended mission.

Turns out Shorty isn’t there, the bartender does not know where he is- but he’s sure that _El Bajito_ will be at the club the following night. They finish their nachos and beer, and as they walk out, Kilgrave yells dramatically for everybody to forget seeing them there. Such a pre-Madonna. _Prima donna_ , she corrects herself. Whatever.

He pauses at the threshold, then turns back, walks to the stage, gestures the dancer over. She bends down to give him her ear, perched on heels, ass in the air. They talk for a minute.

She’s nodding, and takes his hand as he helps her down the steps, before she disappears around to the back of the stage.

“What are you doing?” Jessica stalks over, clenching her fists.

“Alejandra would like to go to dental hygienist school, but she doesn’t have to money to get out of Morelia, plus _El Bajito_ would rather she not leave. Her sister is in El Paso. We can put her on a plane this afternoon. She’ll be there by this evening.”

“What if _El Bajito_ doesn’t like that he’s losing one of his cheap and quality dancers, Kevin? What if he’s got friends in Juárez that can take care of that little problem for him?”

“Once she’s across the border she’ll be fine. You really want to leave her here? C’mon Jessica, this is our good deed for the day.”

Jessica turns to see Alejandra standing expectantly at Kilgrave’s shoulder. She’s wearing a t-shirt and denim shorts now, bouncing on her slightly more reasonably sized heels.

The men in front of the stage are starting to complain, and the bouncers shake their heads as if woken from a nap. They start to approach, but Kilgrave just waves them off with a few words.They look appeased and glassy eyed, and Kilgrave offers his elbow to Alejandra.

She takes it, and Kilgrave turns his smile on Jessica.

“Shall we?”

*       *       *

 

They drop a teary and thankful Alejandra off at Morelia airport before heading back to Apatzingán. The sun is going down, and thirty minutes into the drive Jessica feels exhausted. They’ll come back here tomorrow and find out where Juan is. They’ll figure out how to save him. _Just not tonight._

She sucks in a huge breath, pushing her disappointed thoughts to the back of her head. Her eyes are heavy, and the center of her chest feels numb, pulling with fatigue.

She flips her signal on, and pulls over.

Kilgrave sits up a bit, frowning.

“Everything alright?”

“Yeah, I’m just tired. You can drive us home.”

She shifts the gear up to park, throws the hazards on.

“What? But you never-”

“I’m tired. I’m gonna kill us driving like this.”

“Right. Yeah, of course.” He seems to snap out of his shock, fumbles his seatbelt off, and wrenches the door open. He waits until she’s around the other side, and she lets him hold the door open and shut it behind her.

It feels strange, sitting in the passenger seat with him for the first time in years. But she’s too tired to care. She rolls up her jacket into a makeshift pillow, and closes her eyes to the sounds of the blinker ticking as he rolls them back into traffic, and drives them home.

 

*       *       *

 

 _Parroquia de Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe_  
_Apatzingán, Michoacán, Mexico_  
_8 days missing_

 

Jessica wakes early, stretches in the cotton sheets and sits up in the gray dawn light, Philip’s face is still dancing behind her retina, burned and fading like she’d been staring at a streetlight too long. Her chest aches and she thinks of Juan with dusky blue lips and lifeless eyes.

She shivers, cold. Usually this time of morning, the mercury had already hit 80 degrees. It was maybe 60 right now, strange.

She pads softly into the main room, Kilgrave is still asleep on the pull-out. She studies him for a minute, his hair is already getting long again. His chest rises and falls with the soft early morning air.

She walks to the kitchenette, fills the electric kettle with water from the tap, pushes the orange switch, listens to the dull roar of the heating element set the water to boil.

He turns over onto his back, sighing deeply. His eyes, dark and tired, open to the ceiling, search the room, and settle on her.

She closes her eyes, and thinks of the street she grew up on.

 

*       *       *

 

 _Six Hours Later_  
_Club NACHAS_  
_Morelia, Michoacán, Mexico_  
_8 days missing_

 

She hadn’t seen it coming. Neither had Kilgrave. El Bajito was in the booth across from him, Jessica nervously pacing the room, eyes snapping from Kilgrave to the single door and windows, and back again.

El Bajito lets out a low, long whistle, and the room explodes with bullets and glass. He grabs Kilgrave by the collar, drags him across the table, and slides an elbow around his neck at the same time, squeezing his trachea shut. It happens in a second, maybe two.

Jessica’s on the balls of her feet, ready to leap over and peel away the man’s arm like warm rubber, snap it off at the elbow like dried pasta. She feels the hot searing press of a gun barrel at her neck, and she freezes, hands raised.

Kevin’s fingers are prying uselessly at the man’s meaty forearm, he’s barely able to suck any oxygen into his lungs, his lips are blue.

 _Shit_ she thinks, and the gun at her neck coaxes her to her knees. _Shitshitshit_

The men are yelling, laughing, somehow they’d had an idea about what Kilgrave could do. They’re pushing Kevin down to his knees, he’s panicky, his eyes are starting to roll back, Garcia has a gun to his temple, and she knows what happens next. She keeps her eyes on his, takes two shaky breaths of oxygen, and moves.

Her fist closes around the gun barrel and squeezes it shut, pushing it skyward at the same time. The bullet explodes in the barrel, and the skin of Jessica’s palm is on fire. She clamps down on the gun, wrenching it forward, flipping the narco off his feet. She slams the ruined gun down into the man’s face, hard. His nose and teeth shatter, and her white tank top is painted red. Her left hand has already reached behind her back, grabbed the single-shot pistol from her boot, and she slings the round through El Bajito’s forehead.

It’s still raining glass and bullets, but the narcos across the room stay at their post, _N_ _oses to the wall until I tell you to move!,_  except the ones slumped and bleeding on the ground.

Kevin is on his knees, coughing roughly and sucking down air. Jessica wraps an arm around his ribcage, pulls the gun from El Bajito’s lifeless grip, and drags him under the ruined table, one hand pushing his head lower. She can feel the expansion of his lungs and his pounding heart against her chest.

Her ears are ringing and she thinks, hysterically, that she’s won this petty argument, that _Mexico is as good a place to die as any_. Her fingers dig into his scalp, they crouch lower under the sound of the machine guns, and she sees her brother’s face flash burned into her retinas. She closes her eyes to see it more clearly. She can hear him call out her name, or maybe that’s her dad, _her dad_ -

_Jessica-_

“JESSICA!”

Jessica slams back to reality as her back is pressed into the wood partition of the booth, Kevin’s hands are gripping her shoulders, he’s looking back over his own shoulder, yelling,

“STOP FIRING, _ALTO EL FUEGO_!” He shouts in English and Spanish until finally, finally, the gunfire ceases. The narcos in the corner are all dead, all bleeding and slumped against each other, like a litter of puppies pressed together in sleep.

Kevin’s breathing is heaving and raspy, his larynx was probably half crushed. She pulls his wrists from her shoulders, gets one boot under her, two, and lifts them both to their feet.

They limp outside, sirens are piercing the air. Kilgrave orders all of the men to get inside the club and sit until the police arrive. Jessica pulls him away before he can get more out, he’s bleeding from a deep gash above his ear, she needs to get ice on that voice box before they’re royally fucked.

“Wait-” he rasps.

“We gotta go, Kevin, c’mon-”

“Get him-” His voice falters, but he points to one of the men marching inside. Jessica recognizes him as the bartender from the day before.

“Hey, you-” Jessica gets the man’s head to turn and Kevin gestures him over.

Kevin’s starting to sway on his feel a little, but straightens, looks the man dead in the eye.

“Tell me the truth. Do you know where Juan Ramirez is?”

“Yes.” The man’s voice is hollow and flat. Jessica lets out a breath. The fucking _bartender_ , why hadn’t they cased the _fucking bartender_?

“Where is he?”

“He’s with El Chayo _._ ”

“Is Juan Ramirez alive?”

“The last I heard. El Chayo wants to keep him around, raise him like a son. He won’t kill him unless he has to.”

“Where are they?”

“I don’t know. But whenever he’s in trouble, he heads to his mother’s place in Colombia.”

The shriek of the sirens grow louder, Kevin leans heavily into Jessica’s shoulder. She brings an arm up around his ribcage and edges him to the side.

“Cmon, we either have to take him with us or leave now.”

Kevin nods, turns one more time to the bartender.

“How do you know all of this?”

The man tips his chin up, proud.

“El Chayo only trusts me. He is my brother.”

“What?” Jessica frowns. “His brother is the Mayor, Gómez-Martínez-”

“They are my half-brothers. No one here knows that El Chayo and I share blood. No one knows we are related. I was a secret. I was special.”

Kevin orders the man inside, tells him to tell his story to the police. Not that it will do anyone any good, Jessica thinks wryly. The Mayor will have all of these guys back on the streets in a couple of weeks, maybe a month. Assuming there are any arrests.

She gets Kevin to the hospital, he’s starting to get loopy and light-headed from all the blood seeping out of his head. She promises him over and over again that they won’t stay overnight. She slumps into a blue-gray chair as a nurse in Snoopy scrubs stitches his head shut and wipes his face clean of dirt and blood, and Jessica’s eyes pull heavy and exhausted as she drives back home, drags him back into the Church, dumps him on the bed, pulls his shoes off, and covers him with a blanket.

She watches the rise and fall of his chest as he drops into sleep. Studies the darkness of his lashes against his pale skin, the light dusting of freckles over the bridge of his nose. He never wears sunscreen, can't stand the smell of it, the greasy feel of it on his skin. She feels the stuttering of his heart through soft white cotton and thinks of her fingers on Reva’s neck, cold and still.

She stumbles outside, tips her head up to the stars, and wishes she knew the names of all the constellations. They’re like diamonds spilled onto an inky blanket, thousands of them, so achingly beautiful she wants to cry.

She wonders if Juan is looking up and seeing the same sky she is, if sixteen year old Kevin has ever seen a sky like this, wonders if Phillip had a favorite constellation. She’d never asked him.

All these lost boys, and she wishes she believed in a God, and knew that if she did, she would ask if she could save just one. Even just one of them.

 

 

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who reviewed or gave me kudos! Sorry this is slow going, I'm working on Chapter 3 and beyond as we speak. Most likley this will be 4-5 chapters long, just haven't quite got it all framed out yet.  
> Cheers, everybody!


	3. The Dark

 

 

 

 

_***_

 

## CHAPTER THREE

## The Dark

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

> “Before your eyes the object vanishes, the reasons evaporate; the culprit is not to be found, the offense becomes not an offense but a _fantum,_ something like a toothache, for which no one is to blame, and, consequently, what remains is again the same way out- that is, to give the wall a painful beating. And so you just wave it aside, because you haven’t found the primary cause. But try getting blindly carried away by your feelings, without reasoning, without a primary cause, driving consciousness away at least for a time; start hating, or fall in love, only so as not to sit with folded arms. [...]
> 
> Oh, gentlemen, perhaps I really regard myself as an intelligent man only because throughout my entire life I’ve never been able to start or finish anything. Granted, granted I’m a babbler, a harmless, irksome babbler, as we all are. But what’s to be done if the sole and express purpose of every intelligent man is babble- that is, a deliberate pouring from empty into void.”
> 
>                                                                                 -Fyodor Dostoevsky, _Notes from Underground_

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

 

 

 _Parroquia de Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe_  
_Apatzingán, Michoacán, Mexico_  
_9 days missing_

 

He’s still asleep when Jessica cracks the door open at 5am the next morning. She sees his chest rise up and down, does a quick visual check of his stitches and the bruising around his neck and clavicle. She sets a mug of tea down on the bedside table, scratches out a quick note, and closes the door quietly behind her.

Two hours later she’s yelling across the desk of the _Estación de Policía Municipal_ in Morelia, and feeling his absence keenly. She has a picture she pulled from the bartender’s facebook account, she’s pointing at it violently to a blank-faced uniform. He shakes his head, _lo siento._

She retreats outside to scope out a rear entrance, a window she could break into. She’s about to pull herself up and over an adjoining alleyway wall, when she hears a low hiss.

_“Hey-”_

She whips around, and sees a young man, maybe 30, dark-haired and baby-faced exiting the glass-door of the neighboring coffee shop. He jogs over, looking both ways.

“You're looking for the bartender? Mendoza?”

“Maybe- maybe not. What do you know?”

“Mendoza and El Chayo are half-brothers, they have the same mother. She lives in Colombia, I haven’t had any luck finding her just yet. She still uses El Chayo ’s father’s name, Gómez-Martínez. But she doesn’t have phone, internet, nothing I can use to track her down.

She grabs him by the shoulder, sloshing his coffee, and drags him further down the alley, hissing under her breath.

“How the _fuck_ did you know all that?”

“I heard you yelling from the coffee shop, I think the whole neighborhood did. I’m a cop, I’ve been on the Ramirez case since we heard that Juan and Rosa survived.”

“What do you know about it?”

“I know that you need to talk to Mendoza. Mendoza worked with Bajito, and Bajito worked with El Chayo. And now Bajito’s dead. So you'd better get down here in the next day or two. They’ll be trying to lose the paperwork, get him out before El Chayo finds out his brother was arrested.”

“You’re a cop, and the cops are trying to lose Mendoza- so what’s your angle?”

He smiles, the type of smile you rarely find in New York, but see frequently in the midwest, and down here in Mexico. It’s genuine, open, and very beautiful.

“I'm one of the good ones.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. Detective Sergeant Sam Gutierrez.” He holds out a hand. “You can call me Sammy.”

She takes his hand, shakes it firmly. “Awful young for a Detective. Guys your age only do this job on CBS and NBC.”

“I went to UT San Antonio. American degrees get you promoted a little faster down here. That and knowing when to talk and when to shut up. I'm a quick learner.”

“So you think you can help me out, Sammy?”

“Juan Ramirez belongs with his sister. And that _bastardo_ who slaughtered their family deserves what’s coming to him. Here’s my card. Call me if I can help. I'll have to be careful, they won't like me sniffing around. But if I can, I'll help.”

“Right...” Jessica pulls off her sunglasses, studies the cheap gray suit he’s wearing and the neat style of his hair.

“Oh hey- and bring your friend, in the purple. I heard you got in to see the Mayor- I don't know how, but whatever he said worked. Might be able to use it down here too.”

“You heard about that?”

“A friend of mine is in the security detail down at City Hall. He said you guys walked right in. Nobody gets in like that, it’s fucking _loco.”_

“Yeah, he’s a real sweet talker. And a little laid up at the moment, but I'll get him down here. Call me if they try to move Mendoza, okay?”

She hands him a blank card with a phone number penned in, dead center.

“Okay. Hey, I didn't get your name?”

She walks away, tosses a last glance over one shoulder.

“Jones. Jessica Jones.”

 

*       *       *

 

“Excuse me? Miss?”

Jessica freezes, keys in hand, and turns around to find a polished looking reporter holding a microphone aloft, a cameraman at her shoulder. She’s not used to being accosted in English, and although this is not the first time their heroic exploits have attracted the attention of the press, this is the first time she’s had to deal with one solo.

“Miss? Could we have a minute of your time? We’ve heard you know something about he _NACHAS_ incident yesterday afternoon. You and a male associate were seen leaving the scene, injured. A nurse at Morelia General testified that she had treated your colleague for injuries sustained at the incident? Could you talk to us?”  
  
She realized they’ hadn’t told the nurse last night to forget seeing them, and wonders how many others they’d missed latley- they’d been careless. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You were also identified by a family in Juarez for helping find their missing daughter, last month? Patricia Carvallo? Could you comment?”

“Look lady-”

“We’re an independent news agency, Miss Jones. We’re just trying to get the facts-”

Jessica freezes. “How did you get my name?”

“We showed your pictures to a confidential contact in Juarez and cross-referenced sources in New York. Please- we’re just trying to get to the bottom of this. We hear you’re looking into the Ramirez case-”

Jessica runs the options through her head, and decides she’s only got one without Kilgrave’s help. She reaches over reporter lady’s head and grabs the camera out of the guy’s hands. They both yell, but Jessica folds the camera into a pretzel-esque shape, and chucks it against the nearest stone wall. It shatters in a mess of plastic and glass. Jessica stalks over, and gives it a good three or four stomps into the dusty sidewalk.

She grumbles a, “No comment”, and shuts herself in the van, pulling out into the street, leaving two astonished faces behind.  
  
Fuck. This was definitely attention they didn’t need. She decides not to tell Kevin. At least not yet.

 

*       *       *

 

She sits for the next four hours on the couch outside the bedroom, combing the internet for any information on El Chayo, on his mother in Colombia, or any known local contacts.

She hears a toilet flush and footsteps, and puts the laptop down to check on the Purple Man himself. She cracks the door open.

“Are you decent?”

He grunts in a sort-of affirmative and Jessica takes that as invitation to walk in and sit on the bed. Kevin shuffles back in, wearing a white t-shirt and pajama pants. He dumps himself back on the bed, rolling away from her, toward the wall.

“Sleep okay?”

He glowers, speaking into the pillow. “I have a minor concussion and a head laceration stitched together by a recent high-school graduate. How do you think I slept?”

Jessica grins, humming. “Oh, I dunno, I always sleep great after minor concussions.”

He rolls over, glaring at her. “Don’t you know you’re supposed to check on someone every hour afterward?”

She throws a pillow at his face. “Yeah, but yours was a _minor_ concussion. You’re supposed to sleep after those.”

“You grasp of medical knowledge is dubious at best.” he says, voice muffled from under the pillow.

“Google it, genius.” She picks the pillow up and pokes at his head. “Hey, turn over and lemme see that _laceration_. See? I know medical words.”

“You’re just repeating what I say,” but he rolls over, eyes squeezed shut from the setting sun streaking through the basement windows.

She pushes his hair back, and he flinches as her fingers brush over the angry pink skin around the stitches. She clicks her tongue, pulling her fingers back. “It looks okay. Still clean. I think your high-school nurse did fine.”

“You should have let me call the doctor over.”

“He was in surgery.”

“And?”

“And he had better things to do than sew your stupid head shut.” She studies the pale cast of his skin, the dark smudges thumbed in under his eyes. “You didn’t get any sleep?”

His eyes stay shut. “Bad dreams.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Mmm.”

“That...do you wanna like...talk? Or-”

He scoffs, rolls over the comforter and stands to edge past her, ruffling through his bag at the base of the opposite wall.

“I need a shower.”

“Well. You look better.”

“Liar. I feel like garbage.”

Jessica’s fairly certain in a normal partnership, there should have been another beat to that conversation, she’s missed saying something, or doing something. But this is Kilgrave _Kevin_ whatever, and she makes due with a heavy sigh, and reaches down into the holster at her ribcage, and pulls out something black and solid.

“I've got some lesson plans for you if you feel up to it.” She turns to where he’s pulling a clean outfit from his bag, and wiggles the unloaded pistol from side to side.

“What are you on about?”

“You need to learn some self-defense. C’mon, lemme show you, it might save your life someday. You can shower after.”

He groans, but pushes himself to stand, follows her out to the courtyard. The air is dry, cool and sweet. She holds her hand out at arms-length, closes one eye and evaluates the number of fingers from sun to horizon. Golden hour.

She turns and watches him kick at the dirt and minutiae scattered on the hard-packed ground.

“You ready for this?” A grin is pulling at the corner of her mouth, he looks like a kid, like Phillip used to look after she’d dragged him from his computer games out to the yard to toss the frisbee around at her father’s behest _get him outside today, Jess, you both look like Children of the Corn_ . She corrected him _You mean like vampires? Cause we’re pale?_

 _Whatever,_ he’d answered, _just get him some Vitamin D, I’ll be home late._

“I don’t need this.” his voice pulls her back, he’s staring at her, squinting from the sun peeking over her shoulder.

“What?”

“I got caught off guard yesterday, it won’t happen again.”

“Yeah but if it does, you could die. This is important.”

“Normally, I’d have my voice, the chances of me actually needing to know this are _absurdly_ small.”

“You could’ve used it yesterday, idiot-”

“Aw. That’s sweet, really.”

“Yeah, you think that now. Get over here.” He sighs, but compiles, an eyebrow raised skeptically.

She raises the empty gun to point at his head. “Ok. So someone has a gun to your head.”

“I say, ‘put the gun down’.”

She rolls her eyes. “You can’t talk, you got punched in the throat, or somebody sewed your mouth shut-”

“That’s disgusting. And disturbing.”

“And possible. So you’ve got a gun to your head. What do you do?”

“I dunno.”

“Ok, let’s switch, and I’ll show you. Hold this, point it at my head.”

“You sure this is empty?”

“Do you even know how to check?”

“I’ve some idea.”

“Jesus. Ok that’ll be lesson two. Anyway, hold it back up- yeah. So I want my hands as close to the gun as possible, right? So I hold my hands up- like I’m asking them not to shoot- so what you do, before you even touch the gun, you lean this way, right? Now, this hand is closest, I’m gonna reach for the gun- this is important, not the wrist, see how when I wrap my hand around the gun, I have the control, and the leverage? See how I can pull you forward, off balance?”

She does. “That’s because you’ve got superhuman strength-”

“I know how to gauge it. Ok, hold it back up- look, if I grab your wrist, try and pull- yeah, see? You’ve got this whole range of leverage to work with. Ok back up again. So again, I lean forward, push the gun back with this hand, wrap my hand around, and _pull_ forward- hard, I need to pull you off balance-”

She tugs forward, he lets her.

“Ok, so now, I’m going to turn my back-”

“That doesn’t seem safe-”

“Hold on, just watch. Jesus. Ok, _as I turn_ , I wrap this arm under and grab the gun. So you’ve still got the gun, but I’ve got _two hands_ on it, right? Plus, I’m totally out of the line of fire. And see again, as I wrap my hand around, I’ve also got that elbow to use as well. Which you can use-”

“This is gonna hurt-”

“Quit being such a baby.” She can feel his breath huff warm over her cheek, the sun is beating down hot on the skin of her arms. “Ok, so now I can use my elbow, _boom, boom_ , hit you right in the side of the face, I’m going to pull the barrel around inwards-”

“If you could not break my wrist-” she picks up the scent of soap, aftershave, and Earl Grey tea.

“I might if I can’t concentrate- ok, so I pull around and _inwards_ , now the gun is pointing at you- I can kick you, stomp on your foot- see how now I have control over the weapon, and I’ve got control of you as long as you’re holding onto the weapon-”

She gives the gun a good wrench inward, gentle enough that he wouldn’t break a wrist, but stiff enough to bring him to one knee-

“ _Jesus_ , Jess-”

“Were you paying attention?”

His eyes snap up to hers, he looks pissy and annoyed and something else. His brow furrows.

She lets go. “C’mon, you try. Here, gimme the gun, I’ll talk you through it.”

He sighs, hands her the gun, and climbs back to his feet.

“Alright. I’ve got you at gunpoint, what do you do?”

“Assuming I can’t talk?”

“Quick fucking around. What do you do?”

His eyes are still holding the same veiled contempt, but he raises his hands.

“Good. What next?”

He reaches out.

“Ah- I could pull the trigger- what do you do before you touch the gun?”

Another eyeroll.

“C’mon. Kevin. This is important. What do you do?”

A pause. He leans the side.

“Good! Yes, okay now-”

He pushes his raised hand against her wrist, twists it around and grips the gun.

“Yes. What now?”

He tugs, _hard_ , harder than she expects- forward-

“Good! Okay, shit, that was good, now, you wrap _under_ \- yeah, like that- both hands on the gun. Do you see how you can use your elbows, your knees-” she looks up at him over her shoulder.

“Yeah.” He nods.

“Good. Okay, pull the gun in and around, I’ll give you some resistance-”

He does, and the muscles around her wrist and forearm spasm painfully, she goes with the motion, down to one knee.

“Ah-”

He immediately lets go. “You alright?”

She grins, brushing herself off to stand up straight.  “I’m fine. You’re a little stronger than I thought. That was really good.”

“Really?” The start of a little grin. Shithead.

“If you get shot because you weren’t paying attention here, I’ll kill you myself.”

His eyebrows go up, and he shows off those white teeth. “Jessica Jones, are you worried about me?”

She snorts, shakes her head. “I just don’t want your blood on my hands, _Kevin_.”

“You know, you’re very pretty when you’re angry at me.”

“I’m about to knock your lights out if you don’t shut up.” She’s biting her cheek to keep a straight face, he’s such a little shit.

“What, my _dear Lady Disdain_ -”

“C’mon, Romeo. Let’s go again.” She raises the gun to eye-level.

“Signor Benedick, actually. _Much Ado About Nothing_ , Act I, Scene I.”

“You really want to quote Shakespeare at gunpoint?”

“With you? _I do love nothing in the world so well as you: is not that strange_?”

“Very strange. C’mon.” She raises the gun.

“Again.”

 

*       *       *

 

Padre returns from his rounds seeing his parishioners that afternoon. Jessica lets Kevin beg off for a shower and she wanders across the courtyard to where he’s seated, watching with a contented smile on his face. The sun is dipping below the horizon, highlighting low, dark grey clouds creeping up from the Pacific off to the West. The rainy season was coming.

Jessica feels the muscles in her shoulders sing with blood and adrenaline and it’s good, she’s always liked the feeling of sweat wicking from her skin. Like your skin was making itself new again.

She leans forward, one eye squinted against the glare of the setting sun.

“How were the rounds today?”

“Very good. We are all praying for you and Kevin, that God will lead to to Juan.”

Jessica bites back a wry laugh, nods. “Yeah. Well, we could use his help.”

He smiles warmly, clasping his brown and weathered hands together. “He will give it to you.”

“So what do you do out there?  House-call confessions?”

“Yes. I have some sick parishioners who have difficulty getting to the church. Others just want to be listened to. So I listen.”

“Do they all believe in God?”

“I don’t know. They are all trying. Most struggle with their belief.”

“And confessing to you makes them feel better? Or is it just like a free ticket to heaven?”

“Confession is a way to heal the soul and regain the grace of God. Grace is lost in sin, and makes the soul sick.”

He looks so sure of his words, and Jessica’s not sure if she feels sorry for him that he’s delusional, or sorry for herself that she doesn’t have the capacity to ignore how dark and sad and lost everyone is that she knows.

“I don’t believe in any of that. I don’t believe in God.”

“Maybe you should try.”

“Believing or confessing?”

“What do you think?”

“I think my mistakes are my own. I think confession is a cheap way for weak people to feel better about themselves without actually doing anything to make the world a better place. I carry my own baggage, and I don’t put that on anybody else. ”

“The point of God is that He walks _with_ you, Jessica. You don’t have to be alone. He can help carry your burden.  It doesn’t matter what kind of past you have.”

“You don’t know what I’ve done.”

“You could tell me. You could tell Him.”

“I killed my family.”

“You did this on purpose?”

“They’re dead because of me.”

“You don’t think you should be forgiven?”

“There’s no one left alive who can forgive me.”

“There’s God. And there’s you. You can forgive yourself.”

“It’s not mine to give.”

“You’re wrong. It’s yours to give, Jessica. It’s yours, and yours alone.”

The sky is a low grey threat, and Jessica picks up the crisp cutting scent of rain.

Padre Lopez looks from her out to the yawning sky, looks up.

“You see? Here comes the rain, Jessica. Tomorrow, everything will be brand new. _Tabula rasa_ , yes? Scraped clean.”

She feels the drops of moisture condensing on her skin, tastes salt and dust on her lips.

“Right, Padre. Clean slate.”

 

*       *       *

 

Jessica bids the Father good-night, and walks back down the stone steps to the basement. She can hear Kevin in the shower just as the sky cracks wide open and the rain starts pouring.

Her pocket suddenly jumps to life, vibrating in a jerky staccato. 

It’s Trish.

She glances back toward the bathroom, the hum of the shower water beats steadily behind the closed door. She looks back at the phone, bright and insistent, and answers.

“Hello?”

_“Jessica?”_

“Hey, Trish.”

_“God, it’s so good to hear your voice, I didn’t think you’d answer.”_

“You caught me at a good time. Murder-corpse is in the shower. I’ve got a few minutes.”

_“Murder corpse? Jess, that’s disgusting-”_

“Yeah, you know, it’s the name-”

_“I get it, it’s just gross.”_

“Sorry...right. Well, what’s up?”

_“There’s news. And I got your message, I called Maria. Everything okay down there?“_

“I’m fine. We’ve got a lead to talk to tomorrow, he’s being held in custody.”

_“Custody? You trust the Police to keep him there?”_

“No. But...we had kind of an accident...Kev- Kilgrave, there was some gunfire, he got a little banged up-”

_“Jess, you need to watch it-”_

“Right.” She rubs her temples, watches the yellow glow of light underneath the bathroom door. “I don’t know what I’m doing down here, Trish.”

_“I’m sure you’re doing the right thing.”_

“I dunno. I’m just tired.”

_“…Jess…you sound weird. You don’t sound okay.”_

“I just really need to find this kid. It’s been a long year, I’m getting sick of this country. Everything’s so fucked up down here.”

_“You don’t have to stay. I think you've done enough.”_

“I’ve got to see this one through.”

 _“Yeah. Well.”_ She hears the sigh from Trish she’s heard a thousand times, hears the dog bark in the background, and Trish’s hushing voice.

“Anyway. What’s the news?”

_“Well, that Detective friend of yours finally gave me a call.”_

“Claire?”

_“Yeah. She found them.”_

Her heart picks up. “You’re sure it’s them?”

_“Dead sure. And I’d better be, after how much I paid her. I think she already spent it all on cocaine, I swear to God, I don’t know where you find these people...”_

“Fuck. Alright, can you have her email me the file?”

_“Yeah, I’ve got it, I’ll send it on over.”_

“Are they state-side?”

_“France, actually. They’re still working in medicine, just changed their names. It wasn’t rocket science, I don’t know why it took her almost a year to figure that out.”_

“Right. Well, tell her to keep a finger on them, I want to know if they leave the country, much less the continent, got it?

_“Fine. Alright. You really doing okay, considering?”_

“Yeah. I’m okay.”

_“Call me in a week, okay?”_

“Sure.”

_“You’ll forget. At least answer the phone when I call, okay?”_

“Okay.”

_“You promise?”_

“Yeah. I promise. Oh-”

_“Yeah?”_

“I forgot. There was a reporter today, she knew my name.”

_“What? How’d she get it?”_

“I dunno. Kilgrave wasn’t with me, so I couldn’t just ask. She did say she had a source in New York.”

_“That’s not good, Jess-”_

“I know. Just...if anyone you don’t know starts asking questions about me or Kilgrave...call me. Okay?”

_“Alright. I will.  Take care of yourself. I love you.”_

“Love you too. Bye, Trish.”

_“Bye, Jess.”_

 

_*click*_

 

*       *       *

 

The deluge drags heavy wet fingers down the sides of the stone walls. Jessica stares out at the curtain of water and thinks what the world might look like tomorrow scraped clean, scrubbed down to its bones.

She licks whiskey from her teeth and feels her gums burn and wishes she could get past the numbness she’s slipped into. Wishes she could drink herself into oblivion, the way she’s seen Trish or any normal person accomplish. She’s never been able to get past a careless, dry numb sensation that comes after a bottle and change.

She finds Kilgrave ( _Kevin, she found Kevin’s parents)._  He’s back on the bed again, a book resting against his knees, drawn up in sharp triangles, bare feet flat on the covers. The window is throw open, letting in the damp, heady smell of rain. He’s in his Bowie t-shirt and pajama pants. He’s clean and damp and tired looking.

“What are you reading?” Jessica sits on the edge of the bed. She notices the crossword puzzle from earlier sitting by the lamp, finished. 

He flips the cover around, she notices the words on the page in Spanish, feels a pang of jealousy at his adeptness, to be able to use language as a skeleton key to worlds she had no access to. Jessica had always felt out of place in every room of her life, even when she spoke the same language as the people in it.

“Ah…St. Augustine. Pretty awful, really. He spends most of the book complaining about the hypocrisies of religion. And then he converts to Catholicism. Pretty rich, right? The library here is absolutely atrocious.”

He looks back up at her, and she studies the healing gash at his hairline, reaches out and brushes her fingers across the reddened skin and black nylon stitches. He hisses, flinches away.

“Quit it,” she murmurs, and slides her fingers further back through his hair, and drags him in for a kiss.

The book drops, tumbles heavily to the floor with a _thud_ , and she leans into him, swallowing his yelp of surprise. He lets her control the kiss, opens his mouth to her tongue. She presses a hand to his chest, pushing him down as she climbs onto the bed, caging him between her knees.

His lungs are heaving, she feels his heart hammering _thump-tha-thump-tha-thump_ under her palm, and he breaks the kiss, nose pressed to her cheek, breath puffing hot down her neck.

“Wait,” he breathes, “Just wait, just-”

“Why?” She dips down to his bruised neck, presses her lips to the junction underneath his jaw, and feels his muscles shudder and his hips jump. _He likes that,_ she remembers recklessly, _I almost forgot about that_ and she’s excited by the thought, and all the more disgusted with herself for having it.

“Jessica, _Jesus Christ-”_

She shuts him up again, and skims a hand up under his shirt, pressing into his ribs.

He tastes as she remembers, but everything else is different. He smells like cheap shampoo instead of expensive cologne. She tastes salt and sweat and dust all over his skin, coated with Mexico, even fresh out of the shower. His touch is tentative, and she’s the one pushing him around this time, pulling off his shirt. Pressing her lips into his skin.

She’s loathe to think it, so she doesn’t- but the familiar part of this is such a relief. He’s clearly a little at sea, but he asks her _tell me what you want_ , and she answers. And this time there’s no gray fog over her brain, there’s not a single part of her shouting _no, no, no._ Maybe this should bother her more. But it’s a nice feeling, wanting, and being wanted right back.

She steps out of the shower after to find the bedroom empty. He’s just outside, sitting on the couch in his boxer briefs and shirt, folded up with his fingernails in his teeth. He looks at her, and his fingers travel up to press at his temples, rub at his mouth, then back again.

“I, um. Thought I’d sleep out here. It’s your turn to get the bed.”

He’s not looking at her anymore, but out the open door to the night rain. Of course, it wouldn’t be this easy. _Life never is, Jessie_ she hears her father’s voice.

“Okay,” she says. “Whatever.”

She slips between the covers in the dark, an ache between her legs and beneath her heart. She thinks she misses him already, but mostly she misses the feeling of being whole and tries to remember the last time she felt that way. She’s too tired to think that hard.

She eventually falls asleep to the pounding rain, constant and relentless, like the beating of a heart. _Thump-tha-thump-tha-thump._ The thunder goes _BOOM, CRAAACK!!_ and the lightning slices the sky into sharp, triangular pieces.

 

*       *       *

 

 _Parroquia de Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe_  
_Apatzingán, Michoacán, Mexico_  
_10 days missing_

 

She wakes up, sucking in a breath, and knows she’s not alone.

She lifts herself to her elbows, and turns to see Rosa standing beside the bed, Jessica’s cellphone in her hand. The room is bright with white morning sun. Rosa’s hair is pulled back tightly, her cheeks seemed scrubbed pink, and the air of the room seems cooler, crisper, and clean. Jessica feels distinctly the opposite, she knows her hair must be sticking up in every direction, her eyes are sticky with sleep.

Rosa looks up from the screen, brown eyes wide and serious. She breathes something long and beautiful in Spanish.

Jessica frowns, clears her throat.

_“No comprende-“_

“She’s asking if she can play videos on your phone.”

Jessica’s head snaps up to his voice. Kilgrave’s leaning on the doorframe of the room. All clean charcoal waistcoat, crisp shirt,  dark purple tie. She wonders where he must have found the iron. He looks like the room feels, and Jessica itches for the shower again. His face is carefully neutral, neatly folded into a polite expression.

“Right-” she clears her throat, tears her eyes back down to Rosa, who is staring expectantly. “Sure, uh, _si._ Here-“ she gestures for the phone back. Rosa hands it over, and Jessica types in a passcode and pulls up the YouTube app.

“Here you go, kid. Go nuts. _Loco,_ ok?” Rosa smiles, taking the phone gratefully. A few seconds later, _Despacito_ is ringing throughout the room. Jessica laughs out loud as Rosa’s smile widens into a grin, waving the phone as she skips from the room, singing gleefully.

“I’ve a feeling Padre won’t let her play that one all the way through. The lyrics get quite raunchy.”

She looks after Rosa, then back up at him. His smile sobers back to something more neutral.

“Sleep alright?”

“It was fine. You?”

He nods, hands dipping inside his pockets. “Fine.”

She picks at the sheets. “I’ll, uh. Get dressed then. Padre have breakfast on?”

“Yeah.” He pauses, and this is something they haven’t done for awhile, this awkward distance. “Okay. I’ll leave you to it.”

“Thanks.”

“Ok.”

She leans out, watches him disappear up the stairs to the courtyard where the breeze is coming through. She sighs, leans back into the pillows.

“Fuck,” she says.

She closes her eyes, counts to five, and gets up.

 

*       *       *

 

The morning air blows over Jessica’s skin like cool silk as she walks up the stairs. Padre has the breakfast table sketched out with an artistic spread of _huevos_ , sliced avocados, and _chilaquiles_. Kevin’s already sat down, a newspaper folded open. Rosa bounces over to him, babbling something in Spanish. He takes the phone, presses a few buttons, and hands it back.

“You’re getting good with her.”

He doesn’t look at her. “I’m not giving her any orders.”

She grabs a plate, loads it up with eggs. “I didn’t think you were.”

The newspaper lowers, he raises an eyebrow. “Oh. Right. Bully for me, then. I’m rising in your estimation, it seems.”

She looks back up from her eggs. “You are. I’m not joking.”

His mouth drops open, and he’s about to say something when Padre bustles in, scoops Rosa up and drops her into the chair. Jessica hears her phone ring in Rosa’s hands. Kevin pulls it from her fingers and hands it to Jessica, and Rosa’s face falls.

Jessica leans over the table, answering the phone, but holds it away from her mouth. She looks at Rosa, smiles. “Hey. _Esta noche. Usted puede...._ ” She glances up at Kevin, taps on her ear. _Listen?_ He grins, mouths a word behind his hand.

“Right-” She looks back at Rosa. “ _Usted puede eschucar la musica...esta noche_. Okay?”

Rosa grins, nods.

She excuses herself from the table, pulling the phone to her ear around a column in the arcade, a few feet away.

“This is Jones.”

_“Hey, it’s Sammy.”_

Sammy’s voice comes in a panicky staccato, and she looks back at Kevin. He straightens in his chair, leans forward.

“Yeah, yeah, okay. God _dammit_ -” She stabs the disconnect button on the screen, wishing it were at least a flip phone she could slam shut. They should have made the trip last night, despite the rain. Despite their exhaustion, their laziness, her loneliness. _Fuck._

Kevin meets her eyes, wide and serious. She raises her chin, sighs, signaling him over.

He meets her in the next room, and she keeps her voice low underneath the arched stone ceiling.  
  
“We lost Mendoza. He’s dead.”

 

 

*       *       *

 

She throws the keys at him as he’s slipping his sunglasses on against the mid-morning sun, baking the crisp coolness from the air.

“You drive, I’m gonna think of a game plan.”

He almost drops them (she’d pelted them a little harder than necessary) but recovers, and slides obligingly into the driver's seat, adjusting the seat back and tilting the steering wheel up a notch. Jessica slides in a cassette tape of _Exile on Main Street_ that she’d picked up at a garage sale outside of Tucson, and settles back into her seat.

The volume knob isn’t unreasonably high, just high enough to deter conversation, and she adjusts her body language to match, arms crossed tightly over her ribs, shoulders tilted a few degrees to the passenger side door.

It only takes him twenty minutes to crack and ruin Jessica’s precariously constructed silence. He  drums his hands on the steering wheel (not in time with Keith’s guitar solo) before reaching forward to turn the volume down several notches.

Jessica bristles with annoyance.

“What?”

“You can’t possibly hear your own thoughts over all this noise.”

“It’s how I think. Now bugger off- ” She reaches forward, turning the volume back up.

“You’re just trying to ignore me. And British people don’t actually say ‘ _bugger off’_ anymore, we say _‘piss off’-_ ”

She can see his shoulders tense from her peripheral vision, sees him purse his lips prissily.

And then he’s pounded a finger onto the eject button and pulled the tape from the deck, throwing it over his shoulder to the back seat.

Jessica gapes in the silence.

“Did you just-”

“I almost threw it out the fucking window, so you don’t get to complain.” He’s got one hand on the steering wheel, the other elbow braced against the window, fingers in his hair.

“Well _fuck you_ ,” she fumes, “you don’t just get to shut off my music just because your panties are in a bunch-”

“No, _no_ , fuck _you_ , Jessica- you’re the one that jumped me last night, not like that’s a _big fucking deal for you-“_

 _“_ I didn’t hear you complaining-”

“Are you _serious?!”_ His voice gets all high and squeaky, and Jessica holds back a snort of laughter.  “You’re gonna say that to me, after ripping me apart for saying the same thing to you back when- after-“

“Last year, after you were trying to justify mind-control and rape?”

“Jesus, yes. Yes. And now-“

“And last night, you weren’t under mind control, you weren’t under _any compulsion_ whatsoever, you weren’t even _drunk-”_

“Were you?”

“No!” Her own voice jumps up a few octaves, she hates how she sounds like an uncooperative teenager. “No- I wasn’t drunk. I can’t really get drunk, anyway. A bottle only numbs my tongue up a little.”

“Well you tasted like a whiskey bottle. And smelled like one this morning-”

“Oh, fuck off. My point is, you don’t get to compare those situations. They’re not comparable.”

“Why?”

“Because there’s a difference between regrettable sex and rape.” Her words sound clipped, harsh even to her own ears with only the road noise as background, and she covers the tightness in her chest by reaching back behind the seat to retrieve Mick, Keith, and the boys.

She hears the squeal of the brakes before she can twist around to see the animal crouched in the middle of the lane, maybe 100 feet ahead. It’s over in an instant, the sick smell of burned rubber singing her nose and she hears Kevin heaving air in and out of his lungs beside her. His fingers are white on the steering wheel.

She pulls her right hand back from where it had braced against the dashboard, the steel and plastic crumpled under her fingers like styrofoam. Her own heart is pounding in her ears and throat, but it’s his that she feels under the fingers of her left hand, where she’d thrown her arm out across his chest, pressing him back into the car seat.

The jaguar looks at them through the windshield, ten feet in front of them, frozen in movement. She can hear voices and opening car doors from vehicles pulling over behind them, clicks of camera shutters. It unfolds itself, massive, opens its stance and shakes itself from the tips of its ears through the tail.

It stalks off the road, back to the shadowed darkness of the Mexican rainforest.

 

*       *       *

 

 _Estación de Policía Municipal_  
_Morelia, Michoacán, Mexico_  
_10 days missing_

 

Mendoza hung himself in his jail cell using a piece of twine tied to a nail. Miraculously, there was no cutaneous bruising, no fractured larynx, no ruptured neck muscles. By the time Jessica and Kilgrave arrive at the police station, the body has been carted away and cremated, according to the wishes of his widow, who is also unable and unwilling to make any sort of statement on her husband’s untimely death.

This is all bullshit, of course.

Which is why Jessica is relieved to have Kilgrave back at her shoulder for their afternoon session of what she likes to call “Truth or Dare”. Mexican Police Edition.

Sammy is apoplectic, tie askew, hair a mess, gesticulating wildly to a uniform.

He gestures for them to follow him back to his office. “I swear to you, this isn’t me, I’m on your side here-”

Jessica glances over at Kilgrave, gives him a nod. He fixes Sammy with an intense stare.

“Are you lying to us?”

“No!”

“You had absolutely nothing to do with Mendoza’s death?”

“No, _Jesus_ , absolutely not!”

“Do you know who did?”

“Somebody here. Somebody working with cartel, or paid off. Gotta be.”

Kilgrave looks back at Jessica, shrugs.

“He seems alright.”

Sammy looks back and forth between the two of them. He shakes his head, as if his thoughts were fogging over. 

“I told you already-”

“Sammy, this is Kilgrave. He’s my friend. He’s also an expert interviewer. I’m going to have him interview everybody in this station, ok?”

Sammy shakes his head. “That’d be great, but there’s no way they’re going to let you do that, no way.”

Jessica smiles, lays a hand on Sammy’s shoulder.

“We’ll take care of the red tape, Sammy."

Sammy looks from Jessica, to Kilgrave, and back again.

“Who is he again?”

 

*       *       *

 

The interview is fast. Kilgrave gets everybody into one room, has everybody raise a hand who knows anything about Mendoza’s death. Three hands go in the air.

Two hours later, they have all the information they can get, and still none that they need. The Officers staged the murder on orders from an anonymous voice on the phone who promptly wired them each around 10 grand, and a promise not to slaughter their families.  If El Chayo was responsible, he was keeping all of his cards close to the chest.

Sammy, however, is ecstatic, practically bouncing out of the interrogation room after they left the three officers to sit and think about their actions. Until they could figure out the next step.

“UNBELIEVABLE! That was amazing! So you’re one of them- like Ironman, or Captain America-”

Jessica grabs Sammy by the lapels, pushes him up against the painted cinder blocks of the station walls.

“Sammy. You need to shut up. Right now.”

His eyes are bright, fixed on Kilgrave. “That was...that was incredible! You can make people tell the truth- do you realize what this means, for the whole Justice System, for Mexico, for everybody- this can change _everything_ , this can save the _world-”_

“Shut up, Detective.” Jessica shifts to the side, letting Kilgrave step closer. His voice rumbles low, baritone, and she doesn’t see this side of him much anymore.

Sammy’s jaw snaps shut with an audible crack of teeth. He looks wild-eyed between Jessica and Kilgrave. 

“I can make you do whatever I want. I can make you tell the truth. I can also make you jump in front of a train, or murder your mother. I can make you put a bullet into your brain. You really want your government knowing I can do all of that? Hm? Oh, sorry. You can talk now.”

Sammy works his jaw, still in shock. “You can save my country.”

“And I can burn it to the ground.”

Jessica loosens her hold on Sammy, lets him off the wall. “Sammy. What he’s trying- what _we’re_ trying to say here is that we’re sticking our necks out pretty far, and we need to stay under the radar when we can. I don’t want to be locked up in some secret government lab any more than he does.”

She jerks her head back at Kilgrave. “We’re here to save Juan. Not Mexico.”

Sammy shrugs out from her grip. Breathes for a minute. “You...but you could.”

She takes her hands from him, steps back. “No, Sammy. I don’t think we could.”

 

*       *       *

 

“What do we know? What’s the game plan?”

They’re sitting on and around Sammy’s desk in his back office, behind the bullpen in the Investigative Division on the ground floor. Jessica’s sketched several names on the floor-to-ceiling whiteboard on one wall of the office, and she gestures at one of the names with the red marker.

“So where does El Chayo plan on taking Juan? He can’t stay here, not with Peña Nieto turning the heat up to find him. There’s Colombia- Accessible by the Ports at Lázaro Cárdenas.”

Sammy nods. “It’s huge, the largest seaport in Mexico. So it would be hard to track him down if he makes it that far. It's also a direct shipping route to Port of Tumaco, in Colombia. They could just stow away on any one of the container ships traveling to and from the Ports. Plus, we know his mother still lives in Colombia. She still uses El Chayo’s father’s name, Gómez-Martínez. We just don’t know where, exactly, she lives. Last known residence was in Medellin . But there’s nothing listed since 2005, according to the Police’s database.

Jessica point her marker at Sammy. “Thanks for that.”

“Sure. The other possibility is what we heard today, about Cuba-”

“Cuba, right. One of the officers, Molina, said that El Bajito _,_ our late strip-club owner-”

“God rest his soul.” Kilgrave pursed his lips, arms around his ribcage.

“-Right. He said that El Bajito and El Chayo had a standing plan to flee to Cuba if things ever got to dire straits, especially with all of the pressure recently coming from the Mexican government to find Juan’s kidnappers. He said they’d head to Mérida to take a plane to Havana. Mérida’s about a 2 hour flight, faster in a private jet. And from there, it’s only another hour to Havana. The Cubans wouldn’t extradite him to the US or back to Mexico. That was what the guy said, anyway-”

“Well, it was the truth. It had to be, I asked him-”

“Yeah, I know. But it’s possible if El Chayo knows about us- about _you-_ ”

Sammy nodded, loosening his tie. “Which he might. Bajito seems to have known you guys have powers, considering the shoot out two days ago. He wouldn’t have known to grab Kilgrave by the throat otherwise-”

“Thanks for the reminder...” Kilgrave frowns, rubbing at his neck.

Jessica rolls her eyes. “Sammy’s right. It could have been our interview with the Mayor. I mean, if _you_ heard about that-”

“Everybody at the station was talking about it.”

“Right. Jesus, we should have been more careful-”

“I did tell everyone not to remember it-”

“Well we forgot somebody. Or it wore off. Either way, somehow it’s looking like it got back to El Chayo. We’ve lost the element of surprise.”

Sammy frowned. “Which sucks.”

“Yes. Yes it does.” Jessica sighs. “So he’s liable to head West, to the Ports. Or East, to Mérida. We just have to find out where he’s headed, if he’s not there already.”

Kilgrave groans across the room. “I might actually need a drink.”

Sammy looks up. “I’ve got some mezcal at my place. You guys should come over, my wife Kate just texted, she’s got dinner on.”

Jessica grabs her sunglasses and keys, slaps Sammy on the shoulder. “Sammy, you had us at ‘free dinner’.”

 

*       *       *

 

 _Home of Det. Srgt. Samuel Gutierrez_  
_Morelia, Michoacán, Mexico_  
_10 days missing_

 

Sammy and Kate lived in a nice neighborhood called _Camelinas,_ in east-Morelia, a section of colored stucco and streets lined in jacaranda and green hedges. The houses were gated, and noticeably upscale. Instead of packed dirt and dusty streets, these were lined with hexagonal, precisely places flat stones.

Kate is in her 30s, white, hailing originally from Oklahoma. She hands out plates of rice and enchiladas covered in green chili sauce, and explains that she met Sammy in San Antonio, where she’d been teaching Milton and Donne at UTSA, and he’d been down the road at the Police Academy. They’d met in a bar near campus, thanks to tequila and bad dancing.  

They’re all sitting cross legged in the living room, around the coffee table  
  
“So, you guys are gonna help us drink this. Unbelievable stuff-”

“What is it?” Jessica takes the proffered bottle, studies the label.

“Mezcal, from a buddy of mine in Oaxaca. This is so crazy- his Uncle distills this stuff in the desert, they’ve been doing it the same way for a hundred years. They grow these big agave plants on the sides of the mountains, in the high desert- he lets these plants grow for like, ten years, sometimes. It takes four guys to load one of these plants into a truck, they’re _huge-_ then they roast the ‘em outside in this big fire pit, for three days, something like that. Then, they mash it up, and distill it. Just a few guys out in the desert. It’s _nuts_ -”

“And it’s good?”

“Shit yeah, it’s good! And you can buy it cheap here. In the States, you’d be paying at least a hundred bucks a bottle- hey now, don’t shoot it, you’re supposed to sip it-”

Jessica’s already knocked hers back, but she can still taste a smoky burn on her tongue. It fills up the roof of her mouth, her nostrils. It tastes exactly like something roasting under the desert sun.

Kevin sniffs at his glass skeptically, then takes a sip.

Sammy grins, pointing at Kevin’s raised eyebrows. “See?! Good, right? And I’m not saying we have to go nuts, but I’ve got a whole case of this stuff, so don’t be shy-”

Which is all Jessica needs to hear. And which Sammy quickly realizes he has underestimated Jessica’s tolerance and enthusiasm for alcohol, and overestimated the amount of food that Kate had prepared for dinner.

As a result, they were pretty quickly, and quite spectacularly, smashed. Sammy gives them a crash on the Mexican War on Drugs, declared by President Felipe Calderón in 2006. The real start however, to the modern Cartel, was in the 1980s, with the rise of the Colombian legend Pablo Escobar. Escobar was the first to ramp up the export of cocaine to the States, realizing how much more money Americans would shell out per gram of dope. He was the first exporter to get pregnant women to swallow bags of cocaine and board airplanes from Bogota to Miami.

After the USDEA concentrated efforts on the South Florida operation, the Colombian producers concentrated on finding traffickers in Mexico. The Cartels, which had already established an effective trafficking network in marijuana, jumped on board, and haven't looked back since. The statistics were grim. 90% of the cocaine in the States is imported by the Mexican Cartels. Over 150,000 people dead since Calderon declared war on the Cartels in 2006, another 23,000 people killed in 2016, including several dozen journalists. Those numbers don’t include the almost countless number of missing persons.  
  
Jessica pushes her plate of enchiladas away, listening. "So, how about Peña Nieto? People in Juárez didn't seem like huge fans. Is he any better than Calderón?"  
  
Sammy sighs, shakes his head. "I don't know. I was excited when he came in, he talked a big talk. But nothing has really changed. It was the same with Calderón, the same with Vicente Fox before them. There's always some new task-force, some new corruption probe. Somebody gets fired. But nothing changes. Everybody knows who has the power in this country. The only thing that changes is which cartel. Sinaloa, Jalisco...now down here we have the  _Templarios_. And it's not just drugs. We grow a lot of avocados in Michoacán- Americans buy  _a million tons_ of Mexican avocados every year. So of course, the cartels see the gold in the green.

"This is actually what happened to Juan's family- Old Man Ramirez was sick of paying a tax on his avocados to the  _Templarios._ Ramirez started going to meetings, all the farmers around here are starting to stand up to the cartels. They're organizing, arming themselves. Pretty soon, things could get pretty crazy around here."

The talk turns lighter after the first bottle of mezcal is drained, and Kate takes their plates to the kitchen. She comes back in with a new bottle and Kevin crows at the tray of ice she cracks into their glasses.

Sammy shakes his glass, breaking up the cubes and swirling them in the clear liquid.

“So, how’d you two meet?” Kate settles, indian style, at Sammy’s side, smiling expectantly.

Jessica coughs into her glass, barely keeping the stuff from going up her nose.

“Oh, we’re not-” she looks at Kevin.

He shrugs. “I’m gonna let you tell this one.”

“We’re just...we’re just friends. Er, partners. Just business associates, really...”

Kevin looks askance. “Business associates?! I take offense to that.”

Sammy’s eyes widen a little, but his mouth turns up, amused. The bastard.

“Oh, shit, sorry, I just thought-”    
  
“No, no- it’s fine. We get that a lot.”

Sammy frowns. “Why aren’t you? I mean-”

Kate nudges Sammy’s shoulder. “Sam, _Jesus,_ don’t-”

Kevin’s laughing into his mezcal.  
  
Jessica glares at Kevin. 

Sam leans back into the couch, eyes shining, voice rising with drink. “Hey- I’m sorry- but it’s weird, isn’t it? You work together, you live together, you’re both good looking people, you’ve clearly got chemistry- so why not?”

Jessica finishes her glass, leans over the coffee table to grab the bottle.

“We have history.”

“Oh, so you _were_ together. But then you broke up. Gotcha. Yeah, that’s always awkward.”

“ _Sam-”_

Jessica glares at Kevin. “You want to contribute anything here, smartass?”

He takes another sip, shakes his head. “Absolutely not.”

Jessica turns back to Sammy. “I’m finished with this conversation.”

Kevin holds up a finger. “Well, actually, I would like Samuel to elaborate on his remark, ‘ _you’ve clearly got chemistry-'_ ”

Jessica punches his shoulder hard enough to spill the glass of mezcal from his hand into his lap. Kate takes the opportunity to get up and grab a towel. Jessica sinks back into her corner against the couch, arms crossed tightly in front of her, and Sammy rolls in on himself, laughing.

His eyes are bright, tears at the corners, and Jessica grimaces. “It’s not funny, Sammy.”

His only answer is another round of hysterics, and she catches Kate’s bitten back smile as she hands the tea towel to Kevin.

“Here you go, sweetie-”

“Thank you. No one ever calls me nice things like that. Jessica only calls me ‘fuck face’, and ‘you idiot’.”

This keeps Sammy on the giggle train, but he recovers enough to pour all four of them another round.

“Hey, hey. Let’s do a toast. I’ll teach you- here in Mexico, we say, _Salud, pesetas y amor, y -”_ Sammy looks at Kevin, eyes sparkling with drink. “You know this one?”

He shakes his head. Jessica quirks her lips.

“That’s okay- ‘ _y tiempo para gozarlos!_ ’ It means- To health, money, and love- and time to enjoy them!”

Jessica grins, holds a hand up- “Okay, okay, I wanna learn that one. Say it again, but slower-”

He does, and she pronounces the words around her smile, Kevin’s shoulder is warm at her own.

“.... _y tiempo, para, go-zar-los- gozarlos!”_ Kate and Sammy clap lightly, as well as they can with a full glass of mezcal in one hand.

Sammy looks at each of them, glass still raised. “And then, we drink!”

 

*       *       *

 

The drive back to the church is dark and uneventful. Jessica leaves the radio off and Kilgrave faces the window and presses his hand flat on the window, huffing his breath over the cool glass, fogging over the silhouette of his fingers.

She walks over to the passenger side once they’re stopped, snorts out a laugh as she watches him almost trip over his own feet.

She holds out an arm half-heartedly, but he doesn’t take it, walking straight through the gate into the sheltered courtyard. Jessica pockets the gate key, looking after him with something close to fondness.

But it’s totally not fondness.

“I’ve never seen you drunk.”

His head is tipped up, his feet unsteady beneath him. “I don’t usually overindulge like this. Jessica, look at the stars!”

She follows his gaze. “You’re a happy drunk. I always figured you for a mopey drunk.”

“Like you?”

“Shut up.”

“You mean _touché._ You’re gorgeous in starlight, you know. Well you’re gorgeous in any light, but you’re absolutely breathtaking at night.”

“And you’re very drunk.”

He stumbles back over to her, careful not to touch her, but his hands float over her arms. “Let me take you to Paris.”

“You did, like four years ago. You ruined it for me.”

“Like Italian food?” he asks, sadly.

“Yes, Kevin. Like Italian food.”

“I think we should go again.  It's absolutely magical. And it’ll be different this time, it won’t be awful and I’m not such a monster anymore, am I? And I promise, if you see me make anybody do anything, you can punch me or whatever you want. I can’t have ruined Paris, not even the Nazi’s managed that-”

Which shouldn’t be funny, but it is.

And it’s still pretty funny ten minutes later when he’s crouched in front of the toilet, forehead resting against the porcelain seat between dry (and not-so-dry) heaves.

Jessica gets him a bottle of water from the mini-fridge next to the sink, digs out a couple of ibuprofen from her bag.

“Here, take these. Your head will thank me tomorrow.”

He swishes out his mouth, takes the pills, and lets his head drop back against the cold porcelain, eyes closed. “I hate being dizzy. Haven’t done this since I was a teenager.”

Jessica runs a wet rag under the tap, rings it out and hands it to him, watches as he presses it into the heated skin of his eyelids and scalp.

She taps her finger on the sink, and thinks there may be upsides to his inebriation.

“Why did you pick the name Kilgrave?”

“It was the name of the only doctor I liked. John Kilgrave. He was a radiologist at Manchester.”

She gapes. “You’re kidding-”

He smiles with memory and drink. “No. He used to talk about rugby and football with me. My dad never cared about that stuff.”

“So it’s not-”

“No. Just happy coincidence that it sounds rather menacing.”

She slides down the wall, sitting opposite him.

“Does it bother you when I call you Kevin?”

“It used to.”

“Now it doesn’t?”

“I’ll let you call me anything when you look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like a person.”

“You don’t deserve it.” She swallows, watches his eyes drop. He settles back from the toilet, against the wall opposite her. The toe of his shoes are inches from her bare feet.

“No.”

“Not yet, anyway.”

“But I will?”

“Maybe. That depends on you.”

He frowns, narrows his eyes. He’s still drunk, he’s missing a sharpness to the movement of his head and jaw, his eyes are glassy and slow.

“Why did you kiss me last night?”

She inhales distinctly. She should have know this was coming.

“I don’t know.”

“Yes you do. Why did you kiss me?”

“Loneliness. I dunno, I wanted a fuck. You were there. It happens to a lot of of men that know me, I think there’s even a club you can join.”

“You’re lying.”

“Well I don’t want to talk about it.”

“But-”

She picks herself up from the tile floor, swallows heavily. “I just said, I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Oh, so you can demand truths from me but you’re exempt?”

She presses her fingertips into her temples, and pictures the warm sheets of the bed. “C’mon. Let’s just get some sleep. We can share the bed, I can’t stand that fucking couch. I’ll sleep on top of the sheets.”

There’s a full minute of uncomfortable silence. Jessica shucks her jeans off, pulls the bedcovers back. Kilgrave follows, folds his arms and leans on the doorframe, not looking at her.

“You’ll feel better tomorrow, okay? Just...come on.”

“You’re full of shit, you know.”

Jessica freezes, feels the air in the room drop ten degrees.

“Excuse me?”

His face is thundercloud dark, transformed from the easy, sweet drunkenness of the moment before.

“You like to pretend that this, all this saving we’re doing, that it’s all for me. Your big project to _make me human_. But the truth is, it’s as much for you as it is for me.”

Jessica presses at her temples. “You really want to do this right now?”

“Oh, I think I do. It’s been a year, and you never want to talk about it.”

“Talk about what?! This isn’t about me- _I’m not the one who killed all those people_ -”

“You’re wrong-” he pushes off from the door frame with terrifying speed, and he’s looming over her, as if he still had the ability to control her, to bend her to his will.

“This was never about me. You’re not turning me into a human being, you’re turning me into _you_ . All I feel now is _miserable_ , and sad. All the time. I think about these girls, these dead _brutalized_ children. I think about what these _stupid_ , _ignorant_ people are doing to their own country. I think about Ruben, I think about the Schlottman’s- and I don’t sleep anymore. I’m sick and tired but I can’t sleep. Just like you, Jessica. This is about _you,_ and how you’ve never forgiven yourself for the accident, and now you just want me to be as miserable as you.”

“That’s not true-”

He’s practically circling in on her now, he smells the truth like blood in the water.

“You know what your problem is? I think you _like_ feeling sorry for yourself, you _like_ wallowing in self-pity, you _like_ torturing yourself, and it’s sick, you know, it’s just _pathetic-”_

The black, bitter thing explodes in her chest, she screams-

“ _SHUT UP_ -” and shoves, his back hits the opposite wall with a sharp _CRACK-_ she almost reaches forward to him, hands ready to check for breaks, for the damage she’s caused. But he rolls out of it, he’s fine, _he’s fine_ -

“I’m sorry.” His voice is hoarse and he’s pulling fruitlessly at his hair. “I’m sorry for Ruben, I’m sorry for every bad thing I ever did to you. But I don’t know what you want from me anymore.”

“You’re not really sorry for him. You just want to forget about him so that you can go back to sleep.”

“Yes. I do. Because it’s all just a big cycle, isn’t it? My parents didn’t care about me, and I didn’t give a flying fuck about Ruben. I didn’t give a flying fuck about _anybody_ , until you.”

“So it’s my fault? You growing a conscience is my fault? Well if it is, I’m glad- because it means at least some of this is _working_.”

“And what if I don’t want it anymore?”

“It’s too late.”

“You really think that? You think you can save me?”

“Yes. If you want it.”

“Vanity. It’s just vanity. You can’t even save yourself. You don’t think you deserve it, do you?”

“No.” The word croaks miserably from her lips. She hates this, hates him, hates herself.

“You do. It wasn’t your fault.”

“That doesn’t bring my family back.”

“Then we’re back where we started, at the moral maths- if that’s true, then why are we down here, saving people? It doesn't bring back Reeva, or Ruben, or Hope’s parents. Or yours. It doesn't do them any good.”

“It helps...it helps kill the pain. That’s the best you can hope for.”

“That is _mental_. Are you even hearing yourself? Jessica-”

“I don’t see how you can stand there and not...not...you’re like a fucking sociopath-”

His hands snap to his face, he digs the palms of his hands into his eye sockets. There’s an awful dropping out of sound, of Jessica sucking the words back into her mouth, of Kilgrave _Kevin_ Kilgrave working his throat in the space between her words and his.

His words slow down, careful. “I don’t see how you can say that to me. I’m _trying_...I’m standing here,” he pulls his hands away, his voice is stretched and awful. “...I’m trying. I’m having this conversation with you. I don’t know what you want from me-”

“I’m sorry...I didn’t mean that-”

“It’s like nothing is ever good enough for you.”

“I know.”

“That I’m not. And you’re not.”

“I know.”

“And I know I’ve wasted thirty years of my life, but I have to believe that...the next thirty are worth staying alive for. That there’s something other than death and darkness.”

“I know.”

“I don’t think you do.”

“I don’t...I can’t do this right now.” Her eyes and the skin of her cheeks are stinging.

He’s inches away now, his fingers are hovering above her shoulders, like he’s afraid to touch her.

His voice dips  low, careful.

“Jessica. I love you.”

Her stomach drops.

“No. You don’t.”

“I do.”

“You don’t...you don’t even know what that means.”

He gives up, turns away, runs his hands through his hair. She sees the sweat at the back of his neck, hears the crack in his voice.

He turns on her, and Kevin’s eyes are brown and dark and bottomless and she can’t even see _him_ anymore, he’s just _Kevin_ and she doesn't know what to do with that. Because he’s Kilgrave and he raped her and...and who is she to forgive him for that? Who is she to forgive herself?

“Y’see that...right _there..._ is the worst out of all of it. The _one_ _good_ thing I’ve maybe ever felt in my life is my love for you.  But you won’t give me that, will you? You tell me that what I’m feeling isn’t real, you tell me that it’s _obsession_ , it’s _infatuation_. That it's not love. But if you can tell me the difference right now, I’ll admit you’re right. Tell me the difference, and King’s to you.”

Her fingernails dig into her scalp.

“I don’t...I can’t. We can’t do this right now. Juan is still out there somewhere, and we’re arguing about...stuff that can wait. We’ve got to find him, and get him out, and then we can...figure out what to do. With us.”

“Well I need to do this right now, because I don’t think I can stand feeling like this any longer.”

“I said no. Not right now.”

“I love you.”

“I don’t know what to say to that.”

“Ask me to stay.”

“You-” her throat is closing up. “You can do what you want.”

He lets out a slice of air, like he’d been punched. “Fuck you.”

“I can’t...I need sleep, my head is killing me- we can talk about this in the morning. C’mon, Kevin-”

His eyes are red-rimmed and wet, and she sees the moment his eyes shutter dark and even.

He turns, his long legs carry him back to the door, back out into the evening fading into morning.

“Where are you going?”

The door slams shut.

He’s gone.

 

*       *       *

 

 _Parroquia de Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe_  
_Apatzingán, Michoacán, Mexico_  
_11 days missing_

 

She polishes off an almost-full bottle of tequila in the church basement. She sleeps off and on for the next couple of hours, then watches the grey dawn light outside turn pink.

She thinks of Kevin, and Juan, and Philip, she feels like death and failure all wrapped together in a black hole at the center of her chest, pulling so tightly that it might break, might just kill her this time.

She opens a second bottle, and tries to find the bottom.

She passes out on the sofa in the living area, and trains her eyes on the door across the room, in case he comes back in the hours between now and dusk.

 

*       *       *

 

He doesn't show up that morning, and it’s late-afternoon bordering on evening when Jessica leaves a note on the table in the kitchen, washes the stale alcohol from her mouth, and takes off for the police station in Morelia.

Something is wrong. There is no snotty officer at the front desk to keep Jessica from walking back to Sammy’s office. The bullpen is nearly empty except for two plain clothes officers who don’t give Jessica a second look. They’re going through desk drawers, throwing personal items into a cardboard box just large enough to carry.

She finds Sammy in his office, down a back hallway. He slams down the phone as she crosses over the threshold.

“Jessica, it’s really not a good time.”

“I need your help- also, what the fuck is going on here?”

“I’d love to, but I’m working. If you haven’t noticed, the ship is going down, Jessica.”

“Kilgrave’s missing. I need you to help me find him.”

“What?” he actually looks up from his desk, glasses on the tip of his nose. “You guys left together, last night, what- did you lose him on the way?”

She shuts the door forcefully. “We had a fight, he left- I can’t find him anywhere-”

“So he’s pissed. Give him some time.”

“There’s no place in town he would be-”

“What if he caught a plane? What if he’s not ‘in town’ anymore? Everybody else is leaving.”

“He wouldn’t leave without me.”

“You sure about that?” Sammy gives her a look, over his paperwork. Like she should know better. “What did you say to him?”

“I didn’t say anything,” she snaps, “we had an argument.”

“About what?”

“About none of your fucking business, Sammy. Jesus, you know, it’s not like you have anything better to do today.”

“Jessica-” Sammy throws his glasses down, rubbing his eye sockets. “The Mayor of Morelia just resigned today. Do you know why?”

“No. Is that why this place looks like a sinking ship?”

“The cartel is sick of paying him off. They told him to get out, or they’d kill his family. So he’s gone. And his replacement just fired the entire municipal police force. On top of that, I’ve got a city of almost 100,000 people that are about to take up arms under the banner of some local Doctor that fancies himself a Robin Hood _vigilante_ . A whole army of avocado farmers with shotguns and _pitchforks_ . They’re tired of waiting around for this police force to chase the goddamned _narcos_ out of town that they’ve decided to do it themselves. And they don’t care who gets in the way-”

“So you got fired?”

Sammy looks furious. “I just got a call from the office of the President. Now, he wants me to deputize all these goddamned civilians and on top of that, I’ve got to figure out how to accommodate the 500 _Federales_ on their way from Mexico City.”

“That sounds like it could get pretty bad.”

“You’re goddamned right it could get bad- it already _is bad_ \- losing my job is the _least_ of my worries-”

“Did you get Kate out of town?”

Sam groaned, but nodded. “Yeah. I put her and my parents on a plane early this morning when the shit started to hit the fan.”

“Sammy. You can’t stop this.”

“Yeah. I know.”

“If you want to get out of here alive, stay with me. You help me find Kilgrave, and I’ll make sure you see Kate again. Let your corrupt bosses deal with this-”

“They’ve skipped town- everybody left.”

“They why are you still here?”

“I don’t want to watch this country burn.”

Jessica walks over to the window behind Sammy’s desk that looked out onto the empty bullpen.

“You said Peña Nieto’s got _Federales_ on the way?”

“Yeah. 500 of them for Morelia alone. There’s over 5,000 of them headed to Michoacán.”

“So let them clean up this mess. You’ve done enough. Help me find Kilgrave. Help me find Juan.”

Sammy followed her eyes to the empty bullpen.

“You know if there's any CCTV near the Church?”

 

*       *       *

 

 

 _Estación de Policía Municipal_  
_Morelia, Michoacán, Mexico_  
_11 days missing_

 

“Who owns the cameras?”

“Department of Transportation, usually. But that one looks like it might belong to the bank, it’s just around the corner...all the feeds get sent here, we can look at any camera in Michoacán. No court order required.”

“Jesus. Talk about Big Brother.”

“ _Hermano mayor._ Judges are all paid off anyway. Ok, so here’s the feed outside the Church from the time you’re thinking...”

They bend over the monitor, the footage is grainy but Jessica can make out the exterior door to the Church basement, the Church van parked nearby, along with a black van next to it that she’s never seen before.

She points at the screen. “I've never seen that van before.”

Sammy squints, then points to the windshield. “There’s movement- see?”

“Yeah...what the fuck-”

“There he is.”

Jessica starts at the image of the door swing open violently, Kevin’s familiar silhouette stalking, back toward the camera. He’s almost out of view, but slows, stops. He turns, takes a few steps back to the door, then turns back again.

“What’s he doing?”

“He’s pacing-”

She watches him chew at this fingers, turn, arm snapping around, then back to his mouth. He runs both hands through his hair, and stops in the middle of the alley, face in hands.

“Look- the van-”

The black van’s door opens. Kevin is facing away, towards the open street. He starts to turn back to the sound of the van when something flies through the air, hits his neck. His knees fold under him, and he collapses into a heap. Three figures jump from the van, pick him up, and drag him back to the vehicle. The headlights stay dark as the van creeps back onto the street, turns South, and disappears from camera view.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Sammy runs a search on an adjacent monitor. “The plate is registered to the dead bartender, Mendoza. It’s _Templarios.”_

Jessica bites her lip, the pain grounding, her brain clicking the plan into place.

“Least they’re saving me an extra trip. You got any more of those cameras running South?”

Sammy’s fingers are flying, already pulling up footage, typing in time stamps.

“You bet I do, sister.”

 

*       *       *

 

An hour later, Sammy shuts down the computers, leading Jessica down the hall to the weapons locker. The van had been spotted twice, heading in the same direction, before it was out of range of Apatzingan's traffic cameras, heading Southeast on Highway 120.

Jessica pulls on a kevlar vest, tugging the straps into place. She grabs an extra side-arm and a carton of bullets, slotting them into the dedicated holster and pockets of the vest.

“How far to Lázaro Cárdenas?”

He pockets his own sidearm, grabs an automatic rifle and extra ammo. “Google will tell you a little over three and-a-half hours. I can drive it in two.”

“Good.” She loads the glock, uses the slide to move the first round into the chamber, clicks the safety into place. They grab a couple more vests, an adult size, and a child size.

“Let’s go get our boys back.”

 

*       *       *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took FOREVER!! BUT- for being such good readers, I'll have Chapter 4 in a day or two! It's finished, I just need to make sure it looks just right. 
> 
> Thank you so very much- and thank you to all of my kind reviewers!! Please leave me a note if you're enjoying! Plan is looking like 5 chapters plus an Epilogue. Most likley... ;) 
> 
> This Chapter is for Boredom_Made_Me_Do_It
> 
> If you like to listen to playlists... https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLeBysrcU-kQuVyPrXeCiAQ4CyGhclSyKQ


	4. Lazarus Rising

 

 

 

 

 

 

_***_

 

## CHAPTER FOUR

## Lazarus Rising

 

 

 

 

_***_

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

> “Did I request thee, Maker, from my clay  
>  To mould me man? Did I solicit thee  
>  From darkness to promote me?”
> 
>                         ― John Milton, _Paradise Lost_

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

> “I closed the box and put it in a closet.  
>  There is no real way to deal with everything we lose.”
> 
>                         -Joan Didion,  _Where I Was From_

 

 

 

 

 

 

*       *       *

 

 

He wakes in the dark, and he is alone.

The darkness is complete, fully disorienting, and although he is not sure of the dimensions, he knows that he is in a cage. That he is trapped, and that he will not escape.

He tries to speak, but the pain at the base of his neck allows only a dull, wheezing sound. The pain is a searing, tearing sensation, and he immediately backs off of any movement. Swallowing is awful, but bearable.

He knows he is laying on some kind of wet concrete, that his wrists are cuffed, and that he has been drugged, and is now experiencing the aftereffects. A throbbing head, weak, shivering muscles, and a strange shudder sing feebly through his blood, like metal teeth on a copper pipe. He is shivering, freezing cold-, and as weak as he feels, the wetness from the concrete could just as well be his own blood, leaking cold and tacky from his body.

He remembers how all of this started, the first steps taken along the path that led him here, and thinks that this was inevitable. That there has always been this feeling, that of the shoe finally dropping. After all this time.

In a dark and terrible way, it’s a relief. Soon enough, there will be no more fear, no more pain. He’s been running so long, and he is so very tired.

He thinks her name, vivid and clear in his head, as if he could summon her through telepathy. Maybe she’ll come for him. _Maybe, maybe, maybe..._ He falls back into the grey arms of memory, back to the worst day of his life, and maybe the best day, if he is honest with himself.

He never is. Never has been. Honesty is something he had closed himself off from, directed outward since discovering he could use it, wield it like a sword. It was something purely external, utilitarian.  

The pain in his limbs and in his head dulls slightly, and he knows the first signs of the slide back to unconsciousness, back into oblivion. And he knows, given the state he’s in, that he might not wake up again.

 

***

 

***

 

 _You’re okay_ , he thinks, as he slips _down_ , _down_ , down into the void.

 

The dark shuts in, and he is gone.

 

***

 

***

 

 

##  **1979**

 

Linda has clear blue eyes and freckles. Like the rest of them, her head was shaved. But Kevin had seen the picture she kept in a frame on the table by her bed. In the picture, she had pale blonde hair, like corn silk. In the picture, she was standing with her parents and her two younger brothers, smiling.

Linda shared a room with Kevin. There was a _partition_ (that was the words the nurses used), which was really just a sliding cotton sheet. Linda pulled it back sometimes at night, or the nurses would pull it back when they came in for a procedure, or if Linda’s heart did something funny and the machines went mad and the doctors had to come running in. That had only happened once, in the middle of the night.

But usually, it was pulled open, and Linda would fill her notebooks with drawings of horses and unicorns, and chat with Kevin about all sorts of girly things. Kevin didn’t mind her talking though, not at all. At school, nobody ever talked to Kevin. Nobody paid him any attention at all. He was the sickly kid, the freak. So even when Linda was talking over rugby, Kevin didn’t mind.

“D’you think you’ll always live in England?” Linda asked, looking up from her notebook and pencil. The early afternoon light cast her skin particularly pale, almost translucent. Her eyes were bright and clear, almost healthy.

Kevin looked over at her, down from the television.

“What d’you mean?”

“Like, when we get out of here someday. Do you want to stay here and get a job? Would you go to London?”

Kevin nodded. “Yeah. Definitely London. David Bowie is in London. That’s where Abbey Road Studio is too. Everything happens there.”

“Just the Beatles. The Beatles broke up, nobody cares about them anymore.”

Kevin frowned. “They might still get back together. You never know.”

Linda rolls her eyes. “I don’t think so. But anyway, why would you go to London when you could go to New York City?”

  
  
“New York?”

“Yeah.

Kevin looks back up at the TV, sees O’Riordan get the yellow card. He clicks his tongue in disappointment, _off to the sin-bin with him_. “John Lennon lives in New York.”

“Everybody lives in New York, it’s the place to _be_ , Kevin! You can be who you like there. Nobody cares, and nobody would know that we'd been sick.”

He peers back at Linda, whose pencil is still held motionless in hand.

“Will you come with me to New York, Kevin? When we get better, will you come with me?”

“Yeah. ‘Course I will. Haven’t got any plans, have I?”

Linda’s smile lights up the room, and she picks up her notebook, folded open, and hands it across the space between their beds.

“Look at this one. What d’you think?”

He looks down at the sketch. She’s getting better. There’s a cutting from a magazine taped to the opposing page that Linda had been modeling her sketch from.

“Yeah, ‘s great. Has she got a name?” He hands the sketch back across.

“It’s a _he_. He’s beautiful, isn’t he?  _Black Beauty_ , I think.”

“That one’s taken. From the book, silly.”

She presses her pencil back to the page.

“Well, ‘s just a name, isn’t it? I’m sure nobody will mind. Not _little old me_ , and my silly sketches.” The pencil drops a little, and she lets out a puff of air. He wonders if someday they'll marry, if they'll have sick children or smiling ones with hair and color in their cheeks. 

Kevin bites his lip, looks back up at the telly. O’Riordan’s just got back off the bench, free from the sin-bin.

“You’re not little.” he finds the words dropping from his mouth, eyes still fixed to the screen. “None of us are.”

Linda’s eyes are wide and blue as the sky outside their window, the window with no latch and no moving panes. A clear glass dungeon, eight stories up from the ground.

*       *       *

 

##  **1981**

 

He wakes in the dark, and he is alone. The silence is too heavy, too all-encompassing, for the case to be otherwise.

The ceiling fan whips rhythmically above his head, pressing puffs of air down to his room. Kevin pushes himself up from his bed, and peers around in the dark. His head feels heavy and spinny, and he knows that he has been drugged.

His alarm clock reads _5:15am_. Usually, his parents were getting dressed, showering, his mother might be making them breakfast, or pressing his father’s shirt.

Well, no. Not anymore. They had got rid of the iron. It’d been ruined anyway, blood and puss stuck to the metal surface. And the _smell of it..._ he’d smelled it every night since, two weeks on now, a never-ending nightmare. He feels every bit of his own anger, and why won’t she _look at him_ \- her own son- she just stands there, ignoring him, pressing his father’s shirt like she can’t hear him, when she knows, she _knows_ that he can make her listen-

And the words are out of his mouth before he can take them back, but he doesn’t stop her, even when her hand, gripping the heavy thing, cord trailing behind like a dead rat, lifts through the air- he knows she’s going to do it, but he doesn’t stop it. He watches in dread fascination as she presses the iron into her face, her screams partially covering the sick hissing sound of the moisture, and then blood, evaporating into steam around the angry red wound.

  
  
He recovers some 6 seconds later, yells at her to put it down, _put it down!_ and she does- his father has come barrelling down the stairs, pushed Kevin to the floor before kneeling over his wife, voice hoarse and whimpering in pain. He lifts his wife in his arms, limp and pale, and carries her out to the car. Kevin hears the car start and doesn’t see them for two whole days.

He hadn’t said a word to Kevin, hadn’t even looked at him.

So Kevin knows now, some two weeks later, upon waking alone, fuzzy headed and sick to his stomach, that his parents are gone.

He pads out of his dark room, downstairs and down the back hallway. He walks into their bedroom, the sheets and blankets are a mess. He looks into the closet, empty except for a few hangars.

He goes through the bathroom drawers. His mother’s collection of nail polishes are still here, but her jewelry is all gone. The towels are still here, but his father’s razor is gone. The toothbrushes and toothpaste are gone.

He walks across the hallway to the study. His parents had shared a study, which doubled as a small home laboratory. The chemistry equipment is gone, the bookshelf  almost empty. They’d left the British Medical Association’s _Complete Home Medical Encyclopedia,_ several large volumes bound in red buckram cloth. Kevin runs a finger across the cover of _L-Pre._ When he was sick, he had paged through these volumes, looking at all of the pictures. Brains, eyeballs, penises, vaginas... strange and thrilling things.

He closes the book, wanders into the kitchen. Everything is mostly here, excepting his mother’s silver chest. All of the framed photographs in the house were gone. The suitcases, of course, from the hall closet downstairs. The coat rack is empty.

He sees a stark white envelope sitting on the breakfast table, next to three, hundred-pound notes. The envelope is face down, his name written in large letters across the back in his mother’s curving hand.

He picks it up, rubs a finger over the path of the ink. He flips it over in his hands, untucks the opening flap, exposing part of the folded paper within.

He can read the letters, backwards and upside down through the lined paper, without even pulling the page free of the envelope. It reads _I love you-_

Kevin stalks over to the kitchen sink, pulls the lighter from the cabinet above that holds matches, candles, light bulbs, and other catch-all items. His thumb is weak and shaky, but after the fifth attempt, the rough metal wheel spins and catches, clicks down and an orange flame pops up, thin but constant.

He dips the envelope into the flame, and watches it lick his mother’s words from the page, watches as they melt into fire. The words curl and blacken and disappear, as insubstantial as the air of the room.

 

*       *       *

 

The world is open, and waiting.

He sticks around Manchester for a year, hanging onto the childish attachment of his parents, thinking maybe they’d come back for him. He sticks to the houses on his block at first, talking his way into a warm meal and a soft bed and the feeling of human beings and normal families.

The first week he stays with the Martins down the street. Jim and Dot were nearing on 60, and had never had any children of their own. Kevin rings their doorbell and tells Jim that “I’m your long lost son, Kevin, and you missed me, but now I’m back and quite hungry, and you’ll make a bed up for me.”

Jim Martin’s creased face lights up and Kevin lets himself let go of reality, lets go of the idea that this wasn’t real, that maybe he really _was_ Jim Martin’s lost boy and finally, _finally,_ he was home.

Jim parades Kevin into the kitchen, and tries to explain the situation to a shocked Dot Martin. Of course, Kevin has to clarify things for her, but soon she’s happily whipping up dinner and Jim takes Kevin out to the backyard to kick around a football. They don’t have a football- but Kevin runs back to the old house to grab one, and soon, they’re running around the backyard, having a grand old time.

Jim lifts Kevin in the air, spins him around before gathering him close, and Kevin breathes in his aftershave as Jim’s voice whispers shakily in his ear. “ _My boy. Oh, my boy. We’ve missed you so much.”_

The next morning, Kevin walks downstairs, rubbing his eyes, to find Jim and Dot sitting together at the kitchen table. Their heads swing around to Kevin’s steps on the linoleum floor.

Dot clears her throat, sits up straight over her cup of tea.

There is a strange silence as Kevin reads their expressions, lips pulled shut. They looked perplexed, and not a little disturbed.

Kevin clears his throat, which has started to tighten.

“Don’t you remember? I’m your son. You love me.”

Jim and Dot’s faces immediately melt into relief, they smooth over, sighing. Jim breaks into a warm grin.

“Of course, _of course,_ my boy how could i have forgotten? It must be all that time apart, that’s all- forgive your old father, eh son?”

Dot clasps her hands, crying tears of joy, as Jim wraps Kevin in another hug.

Kevin’s eyes burn, but he can’t bring himself to pull his arms around Jim.

  
  
It should have lasted longer than this. But it had disappeared overnight, evaporated like water.

Kevin leaves that afternoon, to Jim and Dot’s sobbing protests. He tells them to forget him, that they never had a son. They stop crying and blink stupidly, overwhelmed and confused once again.

He thinks later, that he should have left them missing him. He should have left while they loved him.

 

*       *       *

##  **1987**

 

In London, Kevin fills up his lungs with fresh air for the first time, Manchester shaken from his shoulders like a hundred pound yoke.

He doesn’t look completely human. His hair is slicked back and bottle blonde, one eye a startling glowing turquoise, the other blown nearly black, ringed in a dark, dull green. His skin was smooth and white, and a cigarette hung from glossy lips.

“Who are you?” Kevin had stepped through the security team easily, into the crowded backstage area. Women and men in strange costume, neon hair, and alien makeup hung around him in throngs, watching. He was shorter than Kevin had expected, not even six feet. There was a sheen of sweat covering the darker skin of his arms, exposed beneath mint green shirt-sleeves, rolled to the elbow.

The Man grinned, wild and high. “Davey Jones. Ziggy Stardust. Major Tom. I am vast, and contain multitudes- I am an instant star- just add water! I am a _super human!_ And who are you, my boy?”

“Kevin.” he answers, simply.

Bowie laughs, wildly, eyes on fire. He leant forward, smelling like salt and roses. “Here’s the secret, _Kevin_ . You are whoever you want to be. They don’t want you to know, but the truth is that you are a _superhero-_ You’re the inventor, and you have the power of creation to find out who you’re _meant to be_ .”

  
  
Kevin frowns, and an assistant takes Bowie’s guitar, lays a maroon wool jacket over his narrow, pointed shoulders. “How?”

Bowie grins, all galactic eyes and wolfish teeth, and grips Kevin’s chin between his thumb and index finger, _oh so_ gently.

“Easy,” he whispers, “You just stumble along until you find the right chord.” and closes the last few inches between them, pressing their lips together in something altogether strange, soft, and sweet. Kevin muses distantly, opening his mouth, that whoever said ‘never meet your heroes’, clearly, had never met David Bowie.

 

*       *       *

##  **1988**

 

He flies across the Atlantic and lands in New York City, but the City is covered in a sheen of dirt, and crack and AIDS have hit the City like a one-two punch. People are packed into subway cars like sardines- Wall Street businessmen, pretty secretaries headed downtown to their offices, blue-collar workers, young black hoods, wise-guys and punks, prostitutes and bums. They’re packed in, hands and skin and legs brushing together, swaying from the overhead drift hangers like meat from hooks, and none of them look at eachother, nobody talks to each other. Everyone is together and horribly alone. The City is dark and damp, and smells like garbage and exhaust. Depravity and human misery waft off of the shelled out housing projects like a rotting carcass. He hates it. It isn't anything near to the New York of Linda’s dreams.

Kevin spends a week there before flying west to California, and he doesn’t look back.

California is in technicolor. He hitches a ride in a Mercedes-Benz  convertible and tells the driver to take him to Berkeley. They drive down Bancroft, past Edwards Stadium, and Kevin gets out in front of the Sather Gate. The air smells like juniper and salt. The girls are tall and curvy, clean and glowing, and Kevin decides that he might just stay here awhile. Manchester is a cold and distant memory, and he doesn’t think of Linda.

Six months in, he pulls Pattie from his Astronomy class, asks her out for dinner and drinks. Pattie is a total knockout, like Brigitte Bardot, all blonde hair, pouty lips, and an ass you could set a glass of wine on and not spill. She says yes (of course she does), and after free pizza and beers they get a suite at the Claremont with a bayside view. She takes her clothes off and fucks him and they watch _Moonstruck_ and pass out after another bottle of wine. Perfect night.

She wakes him up just after six the next morning by sobbing uncontrollably. He rolls over, groaning.

“What’s wrong with you?”

“What’s wrong with me?!” she sniffs, wipes her eyes roughly. “I just fucked a fifteen year old, _Jesus Christ_ , I don’t know what got into me-” she gets out of bed, starts rooting around for her clothes.

Kevin sits up, wrinkles his nose. “I’m seventeen.”

She huffs, rolls her eyes. “Yeah so _big deal_ \- I can’t believe this-”

He frowns, studies the shamed roll of her shoulders, her shaky hands pulling up her skirt, smoothing it down again.

“Was that your first time?”

“Yes.” she answers flatly, before her eyes widen. “Oh, _god_ , why did I tell you that?”

“It’s not your fault. You find me undeniably sexy.”

Her eyes glaze over, and her fingers still over the buttons of her shirt. She bites her lip, her gaze lowers to his chest. She sniffs again, but the tears have stopped.

“Look, I just- last night was fun, but I’ve got to go- I shouldn’t have done that...” she trails off, stepping towards the bed, instead of away.

He tsks, leans forward and tilts her chin toward him with the tip of one finger.

“Darling. It’s perfectly natural to fall in love with your first.”

Her breathing picks up, confusion in her eyes. “I’m- I’m not-”

“You’re in love with me, Pattie. It was love at first sight. You didn’t stand a chance.”  He keeps his eyes glued to hers. It seemed to help sometimes with the spirited ones- he’d underestimated Pattie.

Her eyes were completely unfocused now, pupils blown wide and black. “Kevin,” she says his name all breathy and uneven. “Kevin, I-”

“You don’t want me to go. I’m the love of your life, I’m it for you, and when I leave, you’ll be heartbroken. You’ll never be the same. You’ll feel as if a piece of you is missing when I go, and you’ll know you drove me away, and it’s your own fault, and you’ll regret it forever.”

“Kevin-” she sobs, desperately. “Kevin, I’m so sorry, I love you- _don’t go!”_ she dissolves into more pathetic tears, face red and salt-burned.

He bats her hands away, clawing at him as he picks up his clothes, dresses, and strides for the door.

“Sorry, love. Gotta go, you know. People, places, all that.” He shrugs, pulling his t-shirt straight around his shoulders.

“ _Please-”_ she begs, “ _Please, God,_ Kevin, don’t go, you’re breaking my heart-”

He shuts the door against her moans, and runs his fingers through his hair.

He hears a last shout of _“I LOVE YOU!”_ and he strides away, whistling a Pat Benatar tune on his way from the apartment building.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

> _You're a heartbreaker_
> 
> _Dream maker, a love taker_
> 
> _Don't you mess around with me_
> 
> _You're a heartbreaker_
> 
> _Dream maker, a love taker_
> 
> _Don't you mess around, no no no_

 

 

 

*       *       *

##  **1993**

 

Paris in the autumn, copper lit and glorious. Breakfast at _La Durée,_ then a stroll through the _Jardin Tuileries_ . Maggie is a vision in a black velvet sweater, leggings, heels, and a bright yellow trench coat from _Yves Saint Laurent_. Her lips are painted deep red, showing off her perfect white teeth and her cherry sweet cheeks.

“I like it.”

He does a couple of turns in front of the three-way mirror, positioned toward the back of _Camps de Luca_ , the best tailor in Paris, situated just off _Rue de la Paix_. Maggie’s on the sofa behind him, her heels clicking on the warm honey-colored parquet floor. The shop is quiet, muffling the Parisian traffic just outside.

“You look good in that color.”

“You don’t think it’s too garish?”

“Mmm. No. It’s perfect on you.” Maggie smiles, leaning forward, chin-in-hand. “Most men can’t pull off anything other than black.”

Kevin studies himself, pulling on the eggplant lapel, twisting to see the fit of the matching trousers.

“And you’re not most men, darling.”

He stops, turns, hands dropping from the lapel. “You’re in love with me, aren’t you?”

Her smile widens. “Madly, my dear. Madly.”

And he’s not even sure, these days, how much of this he has concocted, and how much is really Maggie underneath it all. But he thinks, if she says things like that, it certainly can’t be all his doing, and maybe she really does love him. At least part of her must.

He kisses her, and her mouth opens immediately. He does something with his tongue that always elicits a little sound that drives him crazy, she does all kinds of things like that that drive him crazy.

They break apart at the clerk’s clearing throat. Kevin orders three different suits, all free of charge. Kevin makes the clerk eat the paper ticket as they exit the store, his hand pulling Maggie in tow. Maggie laughs and it sounds like bells, and Kevin wonders if it gets any better than this, that Paris in autumn gold and Maggie in yellow must be some kind of heaven. It's taken him over a decade, but this, right here, might just be everything he needs. Maybe he could be happy like this.

The next evening, Kevin attends a lecture on Godard at the Sorbonne, and Maggie begs off, she tells him she’s got some shopping to do and that she’ll make it up to him later that night. She bites her lip, runs a fingertip down his chest. Her eyes sparkle with the unspoken promise, and he relents.

He returns before midnight, and finds Maggie prostrate on the bed, an empty bottle of sleeping pills and a spent liter of vodka on the nightstand.  Her heart stops before the paramedics arrive to their beautiful apartment above Rue de Seine. They declare her DOA and Kevin watches as they take her body away, strapped down to a rolling stretcher.

She doesn’t leave a note.

 

 

*       *       *

 

##  **1994**

 

He tries to find Linda.

He knows her full name, he knows her family had moved to Manchester from Blackpool to be nearer to the hospital.

The Doctors Thompson had long since fled Manchester University Children’s Hospital, and all of their patients re-assigned to new doctors, or transferred to hospitals in London, Birmingham, and Sheffield.

He feels a cold nausea settle in his stomach as he approaches the receptionist. Her permed hair sticks up in fried, violent angles, her makeup poorly and gaudily applied.

Linda Taylor, medical record number J394T48, died of a cardiac event in her sleep four days after Kevin Thompson, medical record number J394T32, was released from Manchester University Children’s Hospital. Kevin stares in shock, bent over the flickering screen at the secretary’s fingertips.

They hadn’t told him. All this time, she’d been dead, even while he was at home, the program still running. They’d carted off her body and hadn’t told him his only friend was dead.

He clears the secretary’s desk of computer, keyboard, pens and paper in an fit of outrage. His heart is so far up his throat, he thinks he might just vomit it up. No one can tell him where Albert and Louise Thompson are, where they fled to, or whether they’re even still alive.

He finds the Department Head and the IT guy and together, under Kevin’s orders, they figure out a way to copy the University’s videotaped records of the Thompsons’ project. Kevin and the IT guy load 50 boxes of VHS tapes into the back of a Pickford’s van and drive them to a safety deposit vault at St. James’ Bank in downtown Manchester.

He keeps a copy back, wrapped in plastic and sewn into the lining of his wool winter jacket, behind the front lapel. He keeps it there for two years, until he feels secure enough to keep in in a locked briefcase in a safe in whatever hotel suite he’s occupying at the time.

The bank manager asks him what name he wants the vault listed under.

“Kilgrave.” he answers.

“And, a given name?”

“No given name. Just Kilgrave.”

 

*       *       *

 

##  **2001**

New York has cleaned up its act. It’s still decrepit and in decay, but this time isolated to the moral sense, not the physical one. The City has never been safer or more beautiful. Polished to a high shine, Times Square has morphed from a dingy business district full of peep shows and porn shops, to an entertainment jewel. Manhattan rents are skyrocketing, and the New York Yankees have won 3 pennants in a row. Kilgrave thinks he might even bother watching baseball after all these years.

Angela calls his name, and something is wrong. Sirens are filling the air outside, which smells acrid, like ethanol, or gasoline.

She’s naked, as he requested, but frozen in front of the television, remote in hand.

“What’s this?”

The screen is filled with a skyscraper, the Trade Center- on fire, a towering inferno. Smoke billows from the crumbling walls, like an Apollo rocket on takeoff, and there are little bits of debris falling from the sky, little bits of flailing cloth _-_

Kilgrave squints, walking around the sofa to press down next to Angela. “Are those-”

“They’re people.” Angela’s voice is small and filled with a dead sounding horror. “Oh my God. Those are people. They’re _jumping_. Oh my God-”

“Jesus.” Kilgrave watches the second plane hit, and Angela holds her fingers over her mouth, tears pricking the corners of her eyes.

They watch for a few minutes in silence, and she grabs for his hand, something he hadn't expected. Usually, she only showed physical affection per his request. He’d been thinking of ditching her soon, despite possessing one of the most fantastic bodies he’s seen in his life.

He puts an arm around her, and switches off the television. “Oh my dear,” he mutters into her hair. “You’re alright, you’re safe here.” Her shoulders immediately settle, and her breathing evens. “You’re safe with me. Everything will be okay.”

Sirens wail from the streets outside, long and lonely and painful. Something feels unsettled, like he’s walked outside and forgotten his jacket. He shivers, but concentrates on lulling Angela into numb comfort.

 

*       *       *

 

##  **2012**

Jessica, wrapped in black satin.

She’s been a problem since the beginning, resisting him at every turn. She is completely different than every other woman he’s had, and he cannot bear to lose her. She is the yin to his yang, and her powers make her special and perfect for him in every way.

She’s an orphan, just like him. The accident had bestowed incredible powers on her, just like him. Her power exiled her from others around her, and she regarded it as a bit of a curse. Something she hadn’t asked for, and could've done without. Just like him.

(Well, mostly. Permanent retirement suited him just fine.)

He thinks fate must have brought her into his life, led him to round the corner to see her throwing that thug around like a kitten, all black hair, moon-pale skin and red lips. He remembers Maggie in the sun and thinks he’d been wrong back then, that of course his soul mate would be night-dark and starlit. His trajectory had always been a path through the night, and something so garish as a sunlit blonde would never have fit into the shape of his life.

She’d been waking up with nightmares, and the only way to calm her was to compel her back to sleep, to whisper the command in her ear. Which afforded him ample time to watch her sleep, the only time her features smoothed over in peace. Jessica wasn’t like the other women. Even when Kilgrave ordered her to relax, to be happy- there was a permanent dip between her eyebrows. She was fighting him.

Jessica’s eyes flutter open, she breathes in, twisting around, and sits up.

“I need to go,” she swallows, “I need to get out of here. Help me-” her voice rises a little, maybe in panic. She’s confused. She doesn’t know what she wants. Poor thing.

He shushes her, “No no, my dear. Go to sleep. No more nightmares.”, pressing his lips lightly to her temple, and settles down into the sheets beside her.

_I won’t lose you,_ he promises himself. _This time won’t be like the others. I won’t let you get away._

The thought is comforting, and they both fall swiftly into a dreamless sleep.

 

*       *       *

 

##  **1978**

Kevin fumbles his pencil for the third time that morning in maths, and Miss Asher finally notices. It’s been happening with increasing frequency the past couple of weeks, and he’d been getting away with it by covering the movement with a cough, or walking to the pencil sharpener on the wall by the door, as if the pencil had simply broken.

He looks down at his trembling hand, then up into Miss Asher’s widening eyes, and Kevin’s stomach tightens in fear.

 

He’s excused and forced to pack his things and report to the nurse’s office. Which is the last thing he needs. He’s already missed nearly a week of school altogether, and it’s only three months into term.

The nurse pokes and prods, and finally calls the hospital, asking for Doctor Thompson (either will do). Kevin’s forced to wait two hours before an intern shows up at the office, explaining that he’s there to take Kevin over to his parent’s hospital. It only makes sense, he needs further examination, and isn’t he lucky to have both parents as physicians?

His mother smiles weakly at him as she lifts him up and onto a plastic table jutting out from what looks like a giant white plastic donut, it looms over him, looking like the entrance to a dark and bottomless cave.

“Ok, sweetheart. I need you to lie down, and the table is going to move underneath the magnetic coils. I know it looks scary, but there’s nothing to be frightened of. The machine takes pictures that we need to figure out why you’ve been feeling so sick.” she looks at him encouragingly, but the machine looms menacingly at his back.

“You must lie absolutely still, alright? Otherwise we’ll have to start over again.”

They put him in a paper gown, and he’s freezing cold, and they make him lie down and as soon as the table starts inching backwards into the looming dark mouth, Kevin’s heart jumps into his throat, his lungs start to close off, and he panics.

But the velcro cuffs at his wrists and ankles and across his forehead hold him down, and he screams and cries and explosions like a machine gun slam through the air around him, and he thinks he must be dying, that this dark terror must be what death feels like.

He yells for twenty minutes before he passes out from fear and lack of oxygen. He wakes up in a hospital room, cheeks still sticky from tears, and his tongue is heavy and thick. He feels a hand on his forehead, cool and comforting.

“Hello, sweetheart. How are you feeling?”

This is not the voice of his mother.

“Where’s my mum?”

The kind-faced nurse tsks sadly. “Your mummy’s with a patient right now, but she’ll be here in a few minutes, okay?”

His chest hurts, and he starts to cry again. “I just want my mum. Can you get her, please?”

The nurse shakes her head, and puts a blanket over him, up to his chin. “I’m sorry, love. But I promise she’ll be here soon. How about some telly, hm? A little television always cheers me up.”

She doesn’t meet his eyes as she flicks the screen on, flips the channel over to an old John Wayne western. Cowboys in black hats and white hats.

Kevin sniffs, wipes his tears, and falls asleep, waiting for his mother.

 

***

 

***

 

He wakes in the dark, and he is not alone.

 

His eyes open.

 

He breathes _in_

 

***

 

***

 

He is still in a cage, he is still laying on some kind of wet concrete, his wrists are still cuffed, and he is still experiencing the aftereffects of drugs.

But there is a little light seeping in from under a door, and he can see the dimensions of his cage.

He sees a small hand gripping a steel bar across the room, just a few feet away. The small hand leads to a small arm, leads to a small body of a boy around six years old. Brown skin, dark round eyes, soft black hair, and tear-stained cheeks.

_“Despierta! Por favor, señor, por favor...”_ the hand grips the bar, white knuckled. His voice is low and urgent, and full of fear.“ _Señor, despierta! Por favor...”_

Kevin Thompson wakes up in the dark, and he has found Juan Ramirez. Alive, warm and breathing.

  
  
His mouth drops. He swallows, the movement still painful, and manages to whisper.

“Bloody hell...”

 

*       *       *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope this dive down the Rabbit Hole worked for you. I hadn't planned going into Kilgrave's POV. But. This seemed like the right time and the right way to do it. 
> 
> In Chapter 5, we'll be back with Jessica and Sammy ;) 
> 
> Thank you to all who've read and reviewed- let me know what you think!
> 
> Salud!
> 
> Here's that playlist again if you're interested:  
> https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLeBysrcU-kQuVyPrXeCiAQ4CyGhclSyKQ
> 
> Did anyone watch the SpaceX Falcoln rocket today?? Incredible!!


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